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a  I  E>  RARY 

OF   THE 
U  N  IVELRSITY 
Of    ILLINOIS 


Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 

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M 


J  L     X 


L161— O-1096 


A    BORN    COQUETTE. 


BORiN    COQUETTE 


BY 


MRS.    HUNGERFORD 

AUTHOR    OF 
MOLLY    BAWN,'    '  PHYLLIS,'    '  LADY    BRANKSMERE,'    'THE   DUCHESS,'   ETC. 


IN  THREE  VOLUMES 
VOL.   L 


LONDON 

SPENCER  BLACKETT 

35,    ST.    BRIDE    STREET,    LUDGATE    CIRCUS,    E.G. 
1890 


g23 


A    BORN    COQUETTE. 


CHAPTER  L 


^^  '  Not  a  better  man  was  found 

By  the  crier  on  his  round 
Through  the  town.' 


(D 


***** 

'  I'm    done  wid   ye  !  I'm   done  wid  ye  !     I  wash   me 

■^  hands   of    ye !'     says    Mr.    Murphy,    shaking     those 

^withered    appendages  wildly  in    the   air  in   mingled 

jf  wrath  and  grief.     That  ke  is  the  ancient  butler,  and 

^they  the  junior  members  of  the  family  in  which  he 

^as   served  for  years   untold,  does  not  in   the  least 

^detract  from  the  dignity  of  this  denunciation. 

^   '  But,    Murphy,'     begins  William  with    a    sort    of 

muffled  roar, 
r 

^    VOL.  L  I 


2  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Hould  yer  tongue,  sir  !  I  declare,  Masther  William, 
I  wondher  ye  aren^t  dead  wid  the  shame.  To  go 
poachinM  poachin' !  mind  ye!  in  the  middle  of  July  ; 
an'  to  be  found  out!  Oh!  musha,  but  'tis  I'm  the 
miserable  man  this  day.' 

'  But,  Murphy !'  begins  William  again,  the  roar 
now  a  resounding  one,  and  the  fresh  young  face 
crimson  with  mortification,  as  he  notes  the  condemna- 
tory glances  of  the  brothers  and  sisters  round  him. 
'  I  wasn't  poaching,  I  was  only ' 

'  Tell  that  to  the  marines,'  says  Mr.  Murphy  with 
great  scorn — 'tell  it  to  the  Colonel!  He'll  prosecute 
ye,  as  sure  as  fate.  Oh,  the  divil  a  lie  in  it !  He'll 
be  down  upon  ye  wid  a  paper  that'll  put  ye  in  prison 
before  ye've  time  to  turn  in  yer  bed  this  night.' 

At  this  Henjy,  the  smallest  child,  gives  way  to  loud 
lamentations,  and,  flinging  himself  bodily  upon 
William,  encircles  him  with  arms  and  legs.  It  is, 
indeed,  marvellous  the  manner  in  which  he  succeeds 
in  twisting  these  latter  portions  of  his  body.  Truly 
it  would  be  a  bold  policeman  who  could  carry  off 
William  to  a  noisome  cell,  with  those  tender  fetters 
to  protect  him. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE,  3 

*  I'm  telling  you,'  cries  William  furiously,  address- 
ing Murphy,  but  speaking  rather  more  furiously, 
perhaps,  because  of  certain  pinchings  from  Henjy's 
eager  little  fingers,  '  that  it  was  by  the  purest 
accident  I  knocked  down  that  partridge.  I  was 
jumping  over  a  fence,  and ' 

'  'Tis  fifty  year  I've  been  in  this  house,'  says  Mr. 
Murphy,  with  a  noble  disregard  of  the  fact  that  any- 
one is  speaking  except  himself.  '  Fifty  year  come 
last  March,  I've  had  the  rarin'  an'  the  bringin'  up  of  ye 
all ;  an'  mighty  little  do  I  see  to  me  credit.'  Here 
he  shakes  his  head,  as  though  he  would  shake  the 
dust  out  of  it  against  them.  *  'Tis  biddin'  ye  good- 
bye I'll  be  the  day,  I'm  thinkin'.' 

This  threat  is  so  appalling,  so  ever  so  much  worse 
than  the  suggestion  that  a  prison  will  be  the  probable 
end  of  William,  that  a  very  chorus  of  sobs  arises 
from  the  youthful  Delaneys.  A  dismal  howling 
irritates  the  air.     It  irritates  Gladys  likewise. 

'  Oh,  husk  /'  cries  she,  with  all  the  vigour  of  sixteen, 
stamping  her  foot  upon  the  ground.  '  Let  us  hear 
the  truth  ;  really  and  truly,  William,  I  do  think,  con- 
sidering you  knew  Colonel  Hume  was  expected  home 

I — 2 


4  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

at  any  moment,  that  you  might  have  kept  out  of  his 
woods.' 

'  Oh,  of  course,  there  you  go  !  You  are  all  down 
upon  me  like  a  hundred  of  bricks,'  cries  the  wronged 
William,  with  indignant  emphasis.  '  And  not  one  of 
you  know  anything  about  it.  And  I  can  tell  you 
this,    Murphy,   that    I    won't    stand     any    more    of 


your 

'  There's  the  masther  upstairs  like  a  rantin',  ragin' 
lion,  and  yer  sisther,  the  crathure,  smothered  in  tears  !' 
begins  Mr.  Murphy  all  over  again,  as  if  driven  to  it  by 
this  touch  of  insubordination.  *  Oh,  murther  !  why  is 
it  ye  do  these  things  at  all,  at  all .?  An'  all  for  the 
sake  of  a  bird  !  Bad  cess  to  them  feathery  fools,  say 
I,  that  can't  keep  out  of  anyone's  way  ;  there's  nayther 
luck  nor  grace  in  them.' 

'  Why,  what  have  the  partridges  done  ?'  asks  Gladys, 
taking  this  time  the  side  of  the  accused.  '  It  seems 
rather  unfair  to  put  it  all  down  upon  them! 

'  They'll  put  Masther  William  in  quod.  That's  7/ie 
opinion,'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  in  a  sepulchral  tone. 

'What's  the  matter,  what's  happened  now?'  asks 
a  charming  voice.      It  belongs  to  a  charming  body ; 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  5 

Miss  Delaney  number  two,  coming  quickly  into  the 
room,  looks  inquiringly  at  Murphy. 

*  An'  haven't  ye  heard,  miss  ?'  says  that  veteran, 
directing  all  his  attention  to  her.  '  Sure  here's 
Masther  William  has  been  up  in  the  wood  beyant ; 
but  spake  for  yerself,  sir.' 

'  I  would,  if  you'd  let  me,'  cries  William,  with  great 
wrath.  '  Look  here,  Pen  :  I  went  up  to  Hume  Woods 
this  morning,  and  just  as  I  was  jumping  over  a  wall  a 
partridge  started  up  beneath  my  feet,  and  I  had  a 
stick  in  my  hand,  and — er — I  don't  know  how  it 
happened,  but,  all  in  a  moment  like,  the  partridge  was 
lying  there  dead.  And  just  as  I  was  picking  it  up — 
only  to  look  at  it,  you  know — a  fellow  came  over  the 
wall  near  me,  calling  out  and  yelling  like  mad,  so  I — 
er — I  took  to  my  heels  and  ran  home,  and ' 

'Where's  the  partridge?'  asks  Penelope  smartly. 

*  I  left  it  there.  I  didn't  know ;  I  assure  you 
I ' 

*  Oh,  fool !'  cries  she  ;  '  it  would  have  been  just  the 
thing  for  Nan's  luncheon !' 

The  demoralization  betrayed  in  this  speech  is 
evidently  too  much  for  Murphy.     With  a  reproach- 


6  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

ful  glance  at  Miss  Penelope,  he  turns  to  leave  the 
room. 

'  Where  are  you  going,  Murphy  ?  Wait  a  second,' 
cries  Penelope ;  *  what  a  hurry  you're  in !  Does 
father  know  ?' 

'  Arrah,  what  a  question  now  !  Is  there  anything 
he  doesn't  know,  in  spite  of  his  maunderin'  over  those 
books  of  his  ?  Sure  I'm  tellin^  them  he's  like  a  tearin' 
bear.  Yes,  yellow  in  the  jaws  wid  anger.  An'  I 
wondher  at  ye.  Miss  Penelope,  encouragin'  of  Masther 
William,  when  ye  know  what  sort  the  ould  Colonel  is, 
and  that  he's  as  likely  as  not  to  make  the  deuce's  own 
fuss  over  that  bird.' 

*  Does  Miss  Nan  know  V  asks  Penelope  quickly. 

'  Ay,  faith  ;  that  imp  in  the  kitchen  tould  her.  An' 
she's  frettin'  herself  to  fiddle-strings  over  it.' 

*  Oh,  that's  too  bad  !  And  she  looked  so  well  this 
morning  ;  just  like  her  old  self.  Murphy,  go  up  and 
tell  her  it  doesn't  matter.     She  will  really  mind  you.' 

*  She  will,  the  crathure,'  says  Mr.  Murphy  compla- 
cently, accepting  this  tribute  to  his  charms  with  a 
modest  grace.  '  I'll  go  to  her,  I'm  thinkin',  an'  talk  it 
over.' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  7 

'  '  And  don't  forget  to  mention  the  prison  and  the 
policeman  ;  that II  cheer  her  up,'  cries  William  wrath- 
fully,  launching  this  shaft  as  the  old  man  reaches  the 
door. 

Mr.  Murphy  turns  a  withering  glance  on  him,  but 
scorns  to  speak.  Not  so  those  left  behind.  As 
Murphy  disappears,  they  all  turn  and  pour  forth  a 
very  flood  of  eloquence  upon  the  luckless  William. 


CHAPTER   II. 

'The  world  is  a  picture  both  gloomy  and  bright, 
And  grief  is  the  shadow,  and  pleasure  the  light. 
And  neither  should  smother  the  general  tone  ; 
For  where  were  the  other  if  either  were  gone  ?' 

All!  There  are  indeed  a  great  many  of  them. 
Considerably  too  many  for  the  slender  income  that  is 
left  to  the  present  Delaneys  out  of  the  goodly  heri- 
tage of  their  forefathers.  The  old  blood  might  show 
itself,  and  did,  in  the  charming  faces  of  the  girls,  the 
delightful  bonhomie  of  the  boys  that  claimed  all 
men  as  friends  ;  but  there  was  very  little  to  clothe 
the  good  blood  or  throw  out  the  beauty  of  the 
girls. 

But  if  they  were  poor,  they  were  pleasant,  as 
Bartle,  the  eldest  boy,  would  have  said,  and  certainly 
they  are  the  pleasantest,  the  happiest-going  lot,  in  all 
that  country-side. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  9 

From  Nan  (the  head  of  the  family,  now  the  poor 
mother  is  dead),  pretty  Nan,  who  is  nineteen,  down 
to  little  Henry,  aged  five — better  known  in  the  family 
circle  as  Henjy — there  is  not  one  of  them  but  has  in 
her  or  him  ^a  merry  note/ 

Living  in  this  old  barrack  of  a  place  called  Rath- 
more,  with  its  spacious  halls  and  high  vaulted 
chambers,  badly  or  only  half  furnished,  they  cling 
together  like  the  last  leaves  on  a  dying  oak,  and  in 
spite  of  overwhelming  difficulties  still  contrive  to  hold 
their  handsome  heads  high,  and  to  be  '  a  power  in  the 
land,'  if  only  for  their  name's  sake.  That  good  old 
name! 

That  money  is  scarce  with  them  is  so  very  evident 
that  people  have  forgotten  to  comment  upon  it.  And 
as  for  the  girls,  they  always,  one  way  or  another, 
manage  to  look  irreproachable.  In  their  cotton 
frocks — their  washing  flannels — their  innocence  of  all 
such  luxuries  as  silks  and  satins  and  laces,  that  help 
so  many  to  an  admirable  settlement,  they  still 
contrive  to  conquer  life  and  make  it  bearable.  With 
their  delicate  heads  and  dainty  air,  and  slender  figures, 
and  pretty,  white  adorable  hands,  they  show — as  old 


lo  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Murphy  puts  it — '  the  good  dhrop  ' — all  through,  and 
are  unmistakably  all  that  they  should  be. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  pity  that  there  are  quite  so  many  of 
them — so  many  mouths  to  feed,  so  many  lovely  bodies 
to  be  clothed  ;  this  thought  might  undoubtedly  suggest 
itself  to  an  outsider,  looking  on  the  ruin  of  a  good  old 
estate  and  with  a  plan  for  its  renovation,  but  to  them, 
never.  Just  two  or  three  less  would  have  made  the 
others  so  very  much  easier  in  many  little  ways,  but 

those  two  or  three Who  would    be  willing  to 

give  them  up — to  sacrifice  them  for  the  public  good  ? 

First  comes  Nan,  and  then  Penelope,  and  after  that 
Bartle,  and  then  pretty,  tall,  awkward  Gladys,  who  is 
hardly  old  enough  to  make  one  sure  whether  she  will 
be  only  an  ordinary  Delaney  (which  wouldn't  be  so 
bad)  or  one  of  the  extraordinarily  beautiful  ones. 
Then  comes  William,  aged  thirteen,  and  after  him, 
with  quite  a  long  lapse  for  the  Delaneys,  Nolly 
(Norah),  who  is  eight,  and  little  Henjy.  Enough  in 
all  to  make  any  honestly  poor  man  dream  inconti- 
nently of  a  general  suicide  that  should  put  an  end  to 
those  complexities  so  certain  to  occur. 

But  Mr.  Delaney  is  one  of  those  people  who,  as  it 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  ii 

happens  (more  often,  perhaps,  than  one  likes  to  think) 
cares  little  for  the  future.  It  is,  indeed,  so  extremely 
narrowed  a  time  for  him  now  that  perhaps  he  may  be 
excused  for  not  thinking  about  it  at  all ;  but  however 
it  may  be,  Delaney,  as  a  father,  hardly  shines.  His 
children's  prospects  affect  him  so  vaguely  that  really 
the  matter  need  scarcely  be  mentioned  ;  given  two 
rooms  to  which  no  one  has  ingress — his  books,  his 
pens,  his  paper — he  declines  to  trouble  himself  about 
such  trivial  matters  as  children,  servants,  household 
arrangement  and  bills.  These  to  him  are  the  smaller, 
the  impossible  things  of  life. 

The  death  of  his  wife,  on  the  birth  of  Henjy,  was 
perhaps  more  or  less  an  unacknowledged  relief  to  him. 
He  certainly  betrayed  no  positive  grief  on  her 
demise — only  a  decorous  calm,  that  impressed  many, 
and  did  quite  as  well  as  the  usual  thing,  even  better, 
being  of  a  higher  class,  as  it  were,  and  charmingly 
reserved  :  and  even  afterwards,  when  the  world's  eyes 
were  off  him,  he  so  far  decently  conducted  himself  as 
to  show  only  a  subdued  joy  in  the  fact  that  his  soli- 
tude should  now  for  the  future  be  unbroken. 

Of  all  the  girls,  Penelope  is  certainly  the  loveliest. 


12  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Where  beauty  runs  riot  and  to  spare,  this  is  much  to 
say  ;  and  yet,  in  justice,  I  must  confess  that  there  are 
two  or  three  unsatisfied  ones  who  deny  her  right  to 
supremacy  in  this  important  matter.  Yet  to  impeach 
the  charms  of  Penelope  is  to  own  one's  self  a  dullard. 

The  peach-bloom  of  her  complexion  ;  the  exquisite, 
tender,  appealing  expression  in  her  eye  of  Irish  blue  ; 
her  soft,  sweet  mouth,  that  is  yet  not  without  deter- 
mination— not  without  a  suspicion  of  the  Delaney 
temper  ;  her  pretty,  long  slender  neck,  on  which  her 
charming  head  sits  so  haughtily — that  head  crowned 
with  hair  that,  like  Rossetti's  '  Blessed  Damozel's,'  is 
'  yellow  like  ripe  corn,'  all  make  her  as  lovely  and 
lovable  a  creature  as  one  might  wish  to  see. 

As  for  Gladys,  as  I  have  said,  she  is  still  in  that 
nondescript  state  when  one  would  hesitate  whether 
those  undecided  features  might  or  might  not  prove 
perfection  possible.  Bartle,  who  is  a  year  older  than 
her,  is  as  good-looking  a  youth  at  seventeen  as  any 
sister  desirous  of  escort  at  ball  or  party  could  reason- 
ably demand  ;  William  V.,  as  they  call  him,  is  dis- 
tinctly ugly^  though  *in  a  rather  distinguished  way,' 
says  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Manly,  who  lives  about  two  miles 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  13 

away  from  them.  As  for  little  Nolly  and  Henjy 
— why,  who  can  describe  a  child  ?  is  it  not  all  written 
in  the  book  of 

Descriptions  are  tiresome.  Who  reads  them,  I 
wonder }  For  my  own  part,  I  always  skip  them. 
Blue  or  black  eyes,  yellow  or  brown  hair,  a  nose 
retroiissee  or  a  Grecian  nose — all  convey  nothing.  I 
can  imagine  a  face  easily  enough  for  the  heroine,  and 
another  for  the  hero  ;  the  house,  the  grounds,  the  cosy 
nook  where  the  final  loving  scene  is  laid,  the  ghastly, 
dimly-lit  room  where  the  murder  is  accomplished,  the 
station  where  the  runaways  meet,  the  sylvan  groves, 
the  flowery  gardens,  the  earwiggy  bowers  where  the 
unhappy  lovers  pour  out  their  griefs  in  dulcet  tones 
one  to  another,  all  are  plain  ;  why^  then,  waste  time 
over  descriptions  of  them  } 

Still,  a  word  for  Murphy.  Dear  old  man  !  The 
fortunes  of  the  Delaneys,  it  may  well  be  said,  are  his, 
for  so  long  has  he  followed  them  from  better  to 
worse  through  a  course  of  fifty  years. 

On  the  marriage  of  his  present  master  to  the  gentle, 
loving  creature  who,  in  a  luckless  moment,  had  con- 
sented  to   link  her  fate  with  his.  Murphy  had  gone 


14  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

over  straightway  and  enlisted  himself  under  her 
banner.  No  length  of  service  in  the  Delaney  family 
could  prevent  his  seeing  where  justice  lay,  and  giving 
his  allegiance  to  the  weaker  side.  Her  kindly  smile, 
her  delicate  ways,  her  nervous  glance — the  fact,  so 
evident,  that  she  was  forlorn  in  many  ways — all  con- 
tributed to  make  Murphy  her  slave. 

He  had  been  as  devoted  to  her  as  though  she  had 
been  his  own  kith  and  kin  ;  and  when  the  babies 
began  to  come  (and  there  were  so  many  of  them), 
with  all  the  natural  love  of  children  ingrained  in 
the  character  of  the  Irish  peasant,  he  had  accepted 
them  too,  one  by  one,  and  given  to  each  unit  a  corner 
of  his  bachelor  heart.  Each  and  every  one  was  his 
own  special  charge.  He  had,  as  it  were,  amalgamated 
himself  with  the  family,  given  himself  up  to  it  body 
and  mind,  so  much  so  that  the  poor  woman,  when 
dying,  and  not  altogether  reluctant  to  leave  a  land 
where  she  had  known  more  sorrow  than  joy,  called 
for  him,  and  into  the  humble  butler's  hands,  not  the 
husband's,  committed  the  keeping  of  her  children. 

Murphy,  in  his  own  queer  way,  had  been  true  to  the 
trust.     He  lived  with  them  and  for  them  :  he,  always 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  15 

the  servant ;  they,  the  young  masters  and  mistresses. 
But  somehow  this  surrender  of  himself  had  made  itself 
felt  ;  boys  and  girls  had  ever  turned  to  Murphy  for 
advice,  for  comfort,  for  sympathy,  for  toffy,  for  support 
in  any  emergency,  for  small  coin,  for  (later  on  this)  an 
ample  admiration — the  one  article,  I  am  bound  to  say, 
that  in  this  store  was  not  purchasable.  Murphy  was 
a  stern  enemy  of  vanity  in  every  form.  Even  now, 
when  Nan  is  nineteen,  and  therefore  a  person  to  be 
considered,  there  is  a  sort  of  feeling  running  all  through 
the  gaunt  old  mansion,  from  garret  to  basement,  that 
Murphy  is  the  one  member  of  the  household  to  whom 
allegiance  is  due.     As  for  the  father 

Mr.  Delaney — The  Delaney,  as  he  is,  if  he  would  but 
choose  to  air  that  title,  suggestive  of  Ireland  only — 
is  nothing  more  just  now  than  a  dull  old  man. 
Sufficiently  dull,  indeed,  to  be  obstinate,  irritable,  and 
unbearable  on  occasions.  He  had  learned,  even 
before  his  marriage,  to  be  cantankerous,  and  almost 
hypochondriacal.  What  possessed  the  pretty  woman 
he  married  to  marry  him  is  a  question  that  even  now 
puzzles  her  relatives. 

Old  as  he  is,  however,  he  is  still  very  much  alive — 


i6  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

*  annoyingly  so,'  says  the  aunt  aforementioned,  with 
an  aggressive  sniff.  Though  close  on  eighty,  and 
remarkably  close,  too,  to  the  end  of  his  income,  he 
still  clings  to  life  with  a  tenacity — I  had  almost  said 
a  vindictiveness — extraordinary ;  one  not  to  be  sur- 
passed. 

To  the  everlasting  comfort  of  his  family,  however, 
he  abhors  society  and  closets  himself  alone  all  day  and 
night,  in  that  suite  of  apartments  he  has  chosen  for 
his  own. 

It  is  rather  from  his  ancestors  than  from  him  that 
the  children  have  inherited  their  beauty.  Not  but 
that  there  are  good  points  in  his  face,  or  might  have 
been  before  solitude  and  selfishness  devoured  them 
all.  The  Delaneys,  as  a  rule,  had  been  famed  for 
their  good  looks,  but  very  few  of  them  can  be  traced 
in  the  last  head  of  that  handsome  family. 

His  eyes  are  almond-shaped,  a  charm  in  some,  but 
in  The  Delaney  not  so.  It  gives  him,  on  the  contrary, 
a  sinister  expression.     His  nose  is  long. 

'  Fit  to  pick  a  pipe,'  according  to  Mr.  Murphy,  who, 
though  respectful  when  brought  face  to  face  with  his 
master,  still  holds  him  in  a  withering  contempt.     All 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  17 

the  old  Delaneys  were  fox-hunting,  *  divil  may  care/ 
brilliant,   lively   companions    or    masters ;    but     this 

one '  What  on  the  airth  ails  him,  at  all,  at  all  ?' 

says  Mr.  Murphy  periodically,  as  he  dusts  the  books 
of  the  recluse,  and  sighs  over  the  good  days  gone. 

In  truth,  Mr.  Delaney  is  not  one  to  care  for,  or  to 
regard  with  vehement  affection.  He  has  an  objection- 
able way  of  snuffling,  and  of  saying  '  Tcha — tcha,'  as 
if  sneezing  like  a  cat,  when  brought  face  to  face  with 
a  disagreeable  situation,  that  hardly  endears  him  to 
his  associates.  If  he  was  softly  innocent  with  these 
unpleasant  peculiarities,  one  might  forgive  him,  but,  as 
I  have  said,  he  is  wonderfully  wide  awake.  '  The  divil 
wouldn't  be  up  to  him,^  says  Mr.  Murphy,  in  those  in- 
frequent moments  when  he  finds  time  for  soliloquies, 
and  a  patient  introspection  of  his  acquaintances  and 
intimates. 


VOL.  I. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

'  Dark  was  her  hair,  her  hand  was  white, 

Her  voice  was  exquisitely  tender  ; 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  liquid  light, 

I  never  saw  a  waist  so  slender  ! 
Her  every  look,  her  every  smile, 

Shot  right  and  left  a  score  of  arrows  ; 
I  thought  'twas  Venus  from  her  isle, 

And  wondered  where  she  left  her  sparrows.' 

Murphy  goes  slowly  up  the  stairs  in  search  of  his 
young  mistress.  The  fact  that  she  has  only  just  re- 
covered from  a  long  and  dangerous  fever  lends  leisure 
to  his  step,  and  twenty  times  during  his  short 
journey  does  he  curse  the  '  hussy '  in  the  kitchen  who 
had  let  Miss  Nan  know  of  her  brother's  dilemma. 

But  once  having  knocked  at  her  door  and  gained 
admission,  his  courage  returns. 

*  Arrah,  Miss  Nan,  an'  what  are  ye  doin'  that  for 
now  ?'  says  he,  tender  reproach  in  his  tone. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  19 

Miss  Nan,  thus  addressed,  gives  a  last  dab  of  her 
handkerchief  to  her  pretty  eyes,  and  rises  from  the 
old  lounge,  on  which  she  had  cast  herself  in  a  sort  of 
pretty  despair  half  an  hour  ago.  In  her  weak  state  of 
health,  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  all  things  were  going 
wrong  with  them,  when  the  '  hussy  '  imparted  to  her 
the  news  of  William's  adventure  with  the  partridge. 

As  she  comes  quickly  towards  Murphy,  the  dazzling 
light  of  the  July  sunshine  flings  itself  through  the 
window,  and  on  to  her  face.  It  isn't  anything  like 
so  pretty  as  Penelope's,  but  there  is  an  espieglerie — a 
suspicion  of  saucinesss,  of  sweetness,  of  gaiety,  of 
temper ;  all  now,  however,  toned  by  severe  illness — 
that  attracts.  Her  nose  has  a  decided  tilt  upwards, 
her  mouth  is  somewhat  large  ;  but  what  has  that  got 
to  do  with  it  ?  The  nose  has  a  character  of  its  own, 
and  a  very  good  one,  too,  in  spite  of  that  tilt  ;  and  the 
mouth  is  perfectly  adorable,  ever  prone  to  laughter, 
or  to  grief,  or  to  anger,  or  some  such  swift  change  ; 
and  her  eyes,  soft,  dark,  and  gray,  are  a  heaven  in 
themselves.  If  you  could  see  her,  you  would  know 
how  superfluous  it  is  to  add  that  almost  every  young 
man  in  the  county  is  in  love  with  her. 

2 — 2 


20  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Her  pretty  nut-brown  locks  have  been  shorn  by- 
some  cruel  barber,  and  the  charming  shapely  head 
has  now  only  little  short  ringlets,  sunny  here  and 
there,  to  cover  it.  But  it  is  a  head  nevertheless  to  be 
envied. 

With  a  very  tearful  glance,  she  comes  towards  old 
Murphy,  and  lays  her  slender  fingers  in  a  nervous 
grasp  upon  his  arm. 

*  Don't  ye  now  !  Don't  ye,  my  dear !'  says  that  kind 
if  somewhat  obsolete  old  person. 

*0h,  how  can  I  help  it,  Murphy?  You  know  what 
a  trouble  that  boy  always  is,  and  no  one  to  keep  him 
in  order.  You  can  see  for  yourself  what  little  use 
father  is — only  made  to  curse  and  swear  at  us.' 

'  Don't  ye  now  !  Don't  ye  now  again,  my  dear !' 
says  Mr.  Murphy  imploringly. 

*  Why  not  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  say  it  .''  I  declare 
I'm  sure  he  was  born  only  to  curse  at  the  lot  of  us, 
and  if  Colonel  Hume  should  take  notice  of  this  fault 
of  Master  William's  I  really  don't  know  how  we  shall 
ever  be  able  to  hold  up  our  heads  again  ;  and  you  tell 
me  you  have  seen  the  Colonel — that  he ' 

'  Oh,  law !   yes_,  miss.     Faix,  'tis  well   I  remimber 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  21 

him,  an'  ivery  cause  I  had  to  do  it.  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  could  see  him  this  minit,  an'  a  bigger  ould 
blagguard  ye  wouldn't  meet  in  a  day's  walk.  There 
wasn't  the  like  of  him  from  this  to  Dublin.  The 
divil  all  out  he  was,  miss,  askin'  yer  pardon.  A 
reg'lar  tyrant !  But,'  with  quite  a  grand  air,  suggestive 
of  very  advanced  socialistic  views,  '  sure  tyrants  must 
fall !' 

*  But  oh,  Murphy  !'  cries  pretty  Nan  miserably,  '  if 
the  Colonel  should  go  to  extremes  —  if  he  should 
summon  Master  William — what  should  we  do  1  Think 
of  the  disgrace  of  it !' 

*  Arrah !  have  sinse,  miss.  Where's  the  disgrace, 
I'd  like  to  know?'  says  Murphy  grandly,  filled  with  a 
desire  to  allay  the  fears  he  has  so  steadily  raised. 
'  What's  a  boy  born  for  but  to  play  the  divil  wherever 
he  goes?  Why,  look  here,  miss,  if  you'll  just  let  me 
show  you  how  it  was,  you'll  understand  the  innocence 
of  that  poor  misjudged  Masther  William  !' 

Oh,  if  William  could  only  have  heard  him ! 

*  I  wouldn't  care,^  says  Miss  Delaney,  with  a  little 
half-sob,  'if  it  had  been  the  first  time  ;  but  William  is 
always  doing  this  sort  of  thing.     You  know,  Murphy, 


22  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

it  is  only  a  fortnight  since  he  got  into  disgrace 
about  those  woods  before.' 

'  Sure  you  know  now,  miss,  that  was  only  about  a 
melancholy  rabbit.' 

'  It  doesn't  matter  what  it  was.  He  has  been  told 
the  whole  place  is  preserved,  and  that  he  is  not  to 
enter  those  woods,  yet  he  will  obey  nobody.' 

'  Faix,  that's  thrue  for  ye,'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  rubbing 
his  chin.  '  Masther  William,  I  admit,  is  no  thrate 
wherever  he  goes,  but,  sure,  afther  all  he  must  live  ;  an' 
as  I  was  sayin'  awhile  ago,  miss,  ye  must  make  allow- 
ances for  thim  boys.  They  were  born  to  tormint  ■ 
But  as  for  the  rabbits  !  Look  here  now,  miss,  an'  I'll 
put  it  all  straight  before  ye.  Why,  here's  a  boy,  let  us 
say,'  illustrating  this  remark  by  throwing  abroad  his 
horny  hand  towards  a  bookcase,  where  surely  no  boy 
stands,  '  an'  here's  the  rabbit  sittin'  up  as  bould  as 
brass  upon  his  furry  end  ;  and  for  a  minute  or  so  the 
two  poor  innocent  crathures  keep  starin'  at  each  other 
as  if  their  eyes  was  glued  to  the  spot.  An'  presently 
up  gets  the  rabbit  an'  cuts  across  the  grass  like  mad, 
for  the  bare  life  of  him,  an'  away,  uiost  naturally^  goes 
the  boy  afther  him,  an'  the  divil  such  a  game  ever  ye 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  23 

see,  what  wid  the  yellin's  an'  the  tumblin's  an' 
everything  !  An'  afther  a  bit  down  pops  the  rabbit 
into  a  hole,  an'  down  pops  the  boy  on  his  knees  an' 
begins  to  grub  away  the  airth  like  a  good  one ;  an' 
thin,  mind  ye,  there  comes  in  a  wee  bit  of  a  tarrier 
thing.  I  b'lieve  I  forgot  to  mintion  him,  miss,  but 
sure  ye  know  him — Masther  William's  own  tarrier — a 
most  innocent,  harmless  crathure,  as  ye'U  acknowledge 
yerself,  and  a  crathure  born  an'  brought  up  on  the 
premises,  an'  mild  as  new  milk,  an'  widout  iver  so  much 
as  a  bit  of  flesh  taken  out  of  one  of  the  childher's  calves.' 

Here  Mr.  Murphy,  as  if  overcome  by  the  strength 
of  his  own  argument,  pauses,  and  throws  up  his  head 
with  an  expressive  gesture. 

*  Well  .'*'   says  Nan  involuntarily. 

'  Well,  miss,  the  small  tarrier,  as  is  only  the  nature 
of  the  poor  little  honest  baste,  runs  down  the  hole  to 
say,  "  How  d'ye  do  ?"  to  the  rabbit,  an'  presently,  so 
pressin'  is  his  attintions  that  up  comes  the  rabbit,  an' 
at  the  same  moment  up  comes  the  boy's  stick,  an' 
down  agin  wid  a  good  crack  across  the  rabbit's  back, 

an' An'    why    not  ?'    demands    Mr.    Murphy, 

though,  probably.,  he   had  not  intended  to  finish  his 


24  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

history  in  this  way.  '  What  are  they  made  for  but 
to  be  killed  ?  What  on  airth  are  they,  afther  all,  but 
sinseless  bits  of  fur,  good  for  naught,  an*  death  on 
dacent  turnips  ?  Arrah  !  bad  scran,  say  I,  to  those 
who  would  thry  to  stop  the  sport  of  one  of  the  finest 
young  gintlemen  in  Ireland  !' 

Oh,  that  William  could  but  have  heard  him ! 

*  I'm  afraid  notice  will  be  taken  of  this  last  offence/ 
says  Miss  Delaney ;  '  and  the  master — he  is  so  angry. 
I  hardly  know  what  to  do.' 

*  He'll  cool  down,  miss.  Haven't  ye  got  a  new 
book  at  all,  at  all,  that  ye  could  presint  to  him  ? 
'Twould  be  as  good  as  a  cowld  bath  to  him.' 

'  I  feel  as  if  I  could  bear  anything  but  one  of 
father's  attacks,'  says  Nan  tearfully. 

'  Don't  be  frightened,  my  dear.  If  the  worst  comes 
to  the  worst,  I'll  spake  to  him,'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  with 
a  grandeur  that  hardly,  however,  impresses  his  listener. 
*  What  can  he  say,  afther  all  ?'  with  a  note  in  his  voice 
that  is  suggestive  of  the  idea  that  he  is  trying  to  back 
himself  up,  that  is  hardly  sustaining  to  the  other 
culprit.  'The  masther  has  a  wonderful  gift  of  the 
gab,  I  own,  when  once  roused  ;  but  his  bark  is  worse 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  25 

than  his  bite,  an'  if  things  can  be  soothered  down  a 

bit '     He  pauses  and  looks  at  Nan,  and  then  all 

at  once  his  rage  breaks  forth.  '  Why,  thin,  who  on 
airth  could  be  the  ignorant  divil  who  tould  on  that 
boy?'  cries  he.  'There's  neither  luck  nor  grace  in  who- 
ever 'twas.    I  wouldn't  be  Mike  Twoomey  now,  if ' 

'  Oh  no,  no  !  Have  you  not  heard  that  it  is  a  new 
keeper,  an  Englishman,  who  has  charge  of  the  pre- 
serves now?' 

'  Och,  murther  !  That's  bad  !  There's  no  gettin' 
over  them  English  chaps  !'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  bringing 
up  his  hand  once  more  to  his  chin,  and  beginning  to 
scrape  it  thoughtfully.  '  Well,  now,  miss,  an'  why 
don't  ye  sind  Masther  William  up  to  the  house  to  beg 
the  Colonel's  pardon  ?  Masther  William,  though  I 
confess  he  isn't  as  handsome  as  a  Delaney  should  be, 
has  a  twinkle  in  that  left  eye  of  his  that  would  coax 
the  birds  off  the  bushes.' 

'  He's  been  coaxing  one  bird  too  many,'  says  Nan, 
as  though  she  couldn't  help  it. 

'  Ay,  faith  !'  says  Mr.  Murphy  with  a  grin.  '  But 
about  his  going  to  the  Colonel,  miss?  That  would 
be  a  step  in  the  right  direction,  eh  V 


26  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  I  wonder  would  he  go/  says  Miss  Delaney, 
brightening  visibly,  but  speaking  with  a  rather  de- 
pressing uncertainty.  Evidently^  William  is  a  person 
not  to  be  easily  managed. 

'  Sure  ye  know  now,  Miss  Nan,  he  couldn^t  refuse 
you  anything,'  says  Murphy  boldly,  though  he 
himself  is  inwardly  far  from  sure.  '  I'm  thinkin'  I'll 
go  an'  speak  to  him  about  it,  an'  sind  him  here  to  ye/ 

*  Do,  Murphy;  and  —  and  in  case  he  won't  go, 
Murphy,  I  think  Pll  go  myself.  Eh?  The  old 
Colonel  can'i  be  so  bad  that  he  couldn't  be  brought 
to  see  that  a  boy  might  do  a  thing  like  that,  and  yet 
not  be  so  very  much  to  blame.' 

'  He  might,  miss.  He  might  indeed.  Troth,  he'd  be 
a  great  blagguard  if  he  couldn't  see  that.'  There  is, 
however,  a  note  of  doubt  in  Mr.  Murphy's  voice  that 
belies  his  spoken  sentiments.  Plainly  in  his  opinion 
the  Colonel  zs  a  great  '  blagguard.'  '  But  I'm  bound 
to  tell  ye,  miss,  that  in  my  day  there  wasn't  a  bigger 
tyrant  out  than  that  ould  Colonel.  He'd  sarved  in 
the  Injies,  and  he  thought  we  was  all  here  no  better 
than  blacks.  But  we  showed  him  the  truth  of  t/iat, 
plaze  God.     He  found  he  couldn't  ride  over  the  Irish 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  27 

peasant  rough -shod ;  an'  he  found  a  lot  of  other 
things,  too.  Oh,  he  was  the  dickens  all  out  !  Troth, 
Miss  Nan  dear,  I  wouldn't  at  all  like  the  thought  of 
ye  goin'  up  to  the  house,  even  to  save  Masther 
William.' 

'  But  why,  Murphy  ?     Somebody  T?tust  go.' 

'  Well,  he  was  the  toughest  ould  customer.  Faix, 
I  doubt  if  even  now,  when  his  wig  must  be  gray,  ye 
could  get  the  blind  side  of  him.  But  Til  say  this, 
Miss  Nan,  an'  'tisn't  often  I  flatther  you,  as  you'll  bear 
witness,  if  anyone  can  manage  the  comether  over  him 
'twill  be  yerself ' 

*  Still,  I  don't  zvaiit  to  go,'  says  Nan,  with  a  faint 
smile,  *  if  William  will  go  by  himself.^ 

'  That's  thrue,  miss.  I'll  be  off  wid  meself  an'  say 
a  word  to  him.     It  cuts  me  to  the  heart,  Miss  Nan, 

that  ye  should  be  so  throubled.     'Pon  me  fegs ' 

This  is  Mr.  Murphy's  favourite  oath,  and  he  pauses 
on  his  way  to  the  door  to  give  utterance  to  it ;  and  if 
I  do  not  leave  you,  dearest  reader,  with  a  repetition 
of  it,  through  all  the  windings  of  this  book,  still,  I 
entreat  you,  whenever  it  occurs  to  you  that  Mr. 
Murphy  ought  to  swear,  to  put  in  this  awful  expletive. 


28  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Ton  me  fegs,  miss,  that  boy  ought  to  get  a 
throuncing.  But  still,  for  the  honour  of  the  family, 
I  agree  wid  ye  that  'tis  only  wise  he  should  beg  the 
Colonel's  pardon.  But  I  warn  ye,  Miss  Nan,  an'  I 
know  it  to  be  me  juty  to  tell  ye  beforehand,  that  all 
the  Humes  is  a  bad  lot.  They're  half  English,  miss, 
an'  what  worse  could  I  say  to  ye  ?  But  still,  if 
Masther  William  won't  go  be  himself ' 

*  I'll  go  with  him,'  says  Nan,  with  a  pale  smile  full 
of  self-sacrifice.  Truly  Murphy's  statements  with 
regard  to  the  unknown  Humes  are  not  such  as  might 
hearten  her. 

*  You've  more  pluck  than  brains,'  says  Mr.  Murphy, 
as  he  beats  a  hasty  retreat.  That  he  means  to  be 
flattering  is  obvious;  that  he  fails  most  lamentably 
can  be  seen  by  Nan's  countenance  as  she  gazes  upon 
the  vanishing  tails  of  his  shabby  coat. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

'  Enjoyment  is  fleeting,  the  proverbs  all  say — 
Even  that  which  it  feeds  upon  fails  ; 
I've  arrived  at  the  truth  of  the  saying  to-day.' 

In  the  passage  below,  Mr.  Murphy  pounces  on 
William,  and  with  a  diplomatic  turn  of  mind  worthy 
of  a  Bismarck  addresses  him. 

*Yer  sister's  lookin'  bad,  sir,'  says  he,  in  a  low, 
impressive  tone. 

*  Which  of  'em  ?'  demands  Master  William,  with  a 
snarl  and  an  open  air  of  disbelief.  It  is  evident  that 
he  has  not  forgiven  that  allusion  to  the  lockup  and 
the  village  constable. 

'  Now  ye  know,  Masther  William,  I  don't  want  to 
frighten  ye,  but  Miss  Nan  looks  real  bad  ;  she  do,  my 
dear,  she  do  indeed.  This  misfortunate  crime  of 
yours  weighs  heavy  on  her  mind.      Ye'd   better  do 


30  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

something   about   it.       Something,  now,   that  would 

aise  matters.       I'd '     Mr.  Murphy  makes  a  long 

pause  here.  '  I'd  not  answer  for  her  life  if  ye 
don't.' 

'  Oh,  get  out !'  says  William,  with  a  disgraceful 
flippancy.  He  even  goes  so  far  on  the  road  to  ruin 
as  to  give  Mr.  Murphy  a  playful  dig  in  the  ribs. 

'Very  good,  sir;  take  it  as  you  like,'  says  Mr. 
Murphy,  evading  the  dig  and  throwing  quite  a  tragical 
note  into  his  voice.  '  Ye'll  be  sorry  when  it's  too  late 
perhaps,  but  I  can  tell  ye  I  can  see  that  in  her  face 

as  might  warn  a  hay  then,  and But  never  mind,' 

with  an  assumption  of  mild  despair;  'what's  the 
good  at  all  of  spakin'  to  a  harum-scarum  crathure 
like  you,  who  wouldn't  care  if  she  was  dead  or 
alive  T 

'  Oh,  come,  I  say,'  says  William,  trying  to  laugh  it 
off,  but  looking  nervous. 

'  'Tis  the  honest  truth,  any  way,  though  sorry  I  am 
to  say  it.  An'  if  you'll  take  old  Murphy's  advice, 
you'll  go  up  at  wonst  to  her  an'  tell  her  you're  off  to 
the  new  man  to  beg  his  pardon  about  that  partridge 
— bad  cess  to  it !' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  31 

'What!'  roars  William.  *  Beg  his  pardon  about 
a  miserable  bird  that  came  in  my  way  without  being 
asked  ?  No  !  a  thousand  times  no  !  So  there  for  you 
and  for  him  !     I'd  see  you  both  very  well  blessed  first !' 

'  That's  right.  Take  it  in  that  way.  I  like  yer 
spirit,'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  with  exquisite  sarcasm. 
*  But  I'm  tellin'  ye  this  besides,  me  fine  boy,  that  if  ye 
persist  in  yer  present  ways,  'tis  a  cowld  walk  ye'll  be 
takin'  soon  behind  yer  sisther's  corpse  to  the  family 
vault.  Ochone  !  To  think  of  it,  and  she  so  young 
an'  so  purty  !  Oh,  who'd  a-thought  her  own  brother 
would  be  the  one  to  sind  her  there !' 
;  It  would  be  impossible  to  put  on  paper  the  amount 
of  reproachful  misery  that  Mr.  Murphy  at  this  point 
throws  into  his  voice  ;  equally  impossible  to  describe 
the  agonized  expression  into  which  he  screws  all  his 
available  features.  His  eyes  close  up,  his  mouth 
widens,  his  ears  expand,  his  nose — after  all,  he  hasn't 
any  nose  to  speak  of :  I  don't  suppose  it  does  any- 
thing, 

William  has  grown  as  red  as  a  peony.     Fight  as  he 
may  against  the  fact,  he  is  evidently  deeply  impressed. 

*  What  are  you  talking  to  me  like  that  for  ?'  demands 


32  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

he,  in  a  loud  and  indignant  tone,  meant  to  cover  his 
fear.  '  What  abominable  rot !  She  was  as  well  as 
anything  an  hour  ago.     She * 

*  She  purtends  a  lot,  she's  that  amiable,  the 
crathure,'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  who  is  delighted  with  his 
success  so  far,  and  is  nobly  bent  on  following  it  up, 
at  any  and  every  cost.  '  She  purtends  like  a  heyro, 
but  there  be  raisons — docthor's  raisons,'  lying  piously, 
'  for  what  I  say.  Go  up  now,  my  dear,  do — she's 
cryin'  fit  to  kill  herself — and  tell  her  you  will  apologize 
to  the  ould  Colonel' 

*  Go  up  there — up  to  the  Castle }  I  think  I  see 
myself !'  says  William,  torn  between  a  longing  to  save 
his  sister  from  the  cruel  grasp  of  the  '  family  vault,' 
and  a  natural  shrinking  from  bringing  himself  face  to 
face  with  the  enemy.  '  It  isn't  likely  !  I  won't  go 
there — all  by  myself.     I  wouldn't  know  what  to  say 

to  him,   what  to '      Here  his  misery  culminates 

into  a  burst  of  wrath.  '  One  would  think  it  was  a 
hanging  matter  !'  cries  he  ;  '  and,  after  all,  it  was  only 
a  bird.     No  ;  I  won't  apologize  by  myself.' 

The  saving  clause  does  not  escape  the  educated 
ear  of  Murphy. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  33 

'  If  ye  haven't  the  pluck  to  go  there  by  yerself,'  says 
that  diplomatist,  seeing  the  moment  when  concession 
means  victory,  '  Fm  bound  to  tell  ye  that  Miss  Nan 
is  willin'  to  go  wid  ye.  She  is  faix  ;  wake  an'  all,  as 
she  is,  the  crathure  !  But  if  the  Colonel  was  to  come 
down  on  ye  she  knows  the  masther  will  be  tearin' 
round  like  mad  for  a  month  to  come.  An^  now  ye'U 
just  get  on  yer  Sunday  clothes,  an'  take  care  there 
isn't  a  hole  in  yer  stockin'.  And  be  ready  to  start 
wid  Miss  Nan  in  half  an  hour.* 

It  must  be  admitted  that  though  Murphy  speaks 
with  authority,  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  temerity  in 
the  glance  he  now  casts  at  William,  that  betrays  a 
doubt  of  the  latter's  willingness  to  carry  out  the  pro- 
gramme presented. 

'  All  right/  says  William  gruffly. 

It  is  a  reprieve.  Mr.  Murphy  brightens  up  again. 
The  dismal  facial  contortions  take  their  departure. 

'  Wisha  more  power  to  ye!'  says  he  genially.  '  'Tis 
ould  Murphy  that  knows  ye !  An'  what  a  sound  heart 
ye  have  in  spite  o'  yer  cackle !' 

This  dubious  compliment  being  received  without 
comment,  Mr.  Murphy  beats  a  glorious  retreat. 

VOL.  I.  3 


CHAPTER   V. 

Out  from  the  meadows  there  passed  a  maid- 
How  can  I  tell  you  why  she  was  fair  ? 

To  see  was  to  love,  while  she  bent  her  head 
Over  the  brooklet  that  murmured  there.' 


The  day  has  waned  a  little  ;  the  softer  touches  that 
adorn  the  long  sweet  hours  of  summer  as  evening  grows 
apace  have  now  fallen  in  a  tender  cloud  on  wood  and 
upland.  Nan,  with  William — culprit  William  ! — by 
her  side,  has  climbed  the  wall  that  separates  Rathmore 
from  the  castle,  and  is  (heavily  at  heart)  getting  over 
the  ground  that  stands  between  her  and  the  apology 
that  must  be  made. 

Such  lovely  ground,  too.  A  pity  that  any  thought 
distressing  should  wander  through  it.  They  had 
come  from  the  glaring  light  without  on  the  hard 
road  right  into  it,  to  find  a  delicious  darkness  that 
may   be  felt.     Here  and   there,   all  round  them,   as 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  '35 

far  as  eye  may  see,  rise  up  the  trees,  deepening  the 
light  that  already  is  growing  a  little  vague.  No  paths 
are  here,  no  well-worn  footmarks  ;  all  is  wild,  untram- 
melled, silent. 

To  Nan,  whose  heart  is  full,  and  whose  steps  are 
languid,  because  of  late  terrible  illness,  the  evening  is 
rich  in  balm,  that  only  nature  can  supply.  These 
delicate  winding  ways  in  strange,  sad  woods,  where 
only  twilight  reigns,  is  inexpressibly  sweet  to  her. 

She  has  been  so  near  the  grave,  that  her  fresh 
return  to  earth,  as  it  were,  is  doubly  grateful  to  her. 
Though  harassed  now  by  her  doubts  and  fears  about 
this  visit  to  an  old  and  irascible  Colonel  to  gain 
pardon  for  an  erring  brother,  she  still  acknowledges 
the  power  of  nature  to  make  glad  its  lovers. 

From  the  grave,  that  dullest  of  all  things,  to  here 
— to  the  deeper,  sweeter  shades  of  life  that  lie  in 
secluded  woodlands.     Dear  heaven,  what  a  reprieve ! 

'  Truly  this  life  is  precious  to  the  root, 
And  good  the  feel  of  grass  beneath  the  foot ; 

To  lie  in  buttercups  and  clover  bloom, 
Tenant  in  common  with  the  bees. 
And  watch  the  white  clouds  drift  through  gulfs  of  trees, 

Is  better  than  long  waiting  in  the  tomb.\ 

3-2 


36  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Oh,  surely,  surely. 

But  even  through  sylvan  coverts  and  dainty  groves 
thought  that  is  most-times  cruel  will  push  itself. 
Nan,  rousing  from  a  blissful  contemplation  of  the  un- 
surpassable charms  around  her,  returns  to  the  dreary 
realities  of  life.  A  scolding  is  assuredly  before  her, 
an  irate  Colonel  ahead  of  her.  She  is,  in  fact,  on  a 
voyage  of  discovery  to  lands  unknown,  but  where  at 
all  events  she  does  know  that  an  old  man  with  a 
vile  temper  is  to  be  met  with  and  interviewed. 

'  Oh  bother  !  William  !  What  a  worry  that  boy 
has  always  been  !' 

'  I  do  hope  you  have  prepared  some  little  speech  to 
make  to  him  .?'  she  says  at  length,  turning  to  William, 
who  is  trudging  along  beside  her  with  an  injured  ex- 
pression on  his  unhandsome  face.  *  It  is  the  least  you 
may  do.  Something  conciliating,  without  being  exactly 
abject.  I've  tried  to  do  it,  but  I've  failed,  so  I'm  a 
lost  prop.  I  find  I  am  either  insolent  or  positively 
servile.     I  fear  even  servility  would  not  answer  here.' 

'  I  won't  answer,  at  all  events,'  says  William,  who  is 
plainly  in  a  state  of  revolt.  '  I've  got  nothing  to  say, 
insolent  or  otherwise.* 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  ^7 

*  You'll  have  to  explain  about  it :  To — to  intro- 
duce the  subject,'  says  Miss  Delaney,  with  a  sternness 
born  of  her  anxiety.  If  he  won't  begin  when  face  to 
face  with  this  terrible  old  martinet  of  a  Colonel,  she 
will  have  to.  This  is  a.  prospect  scarcely  to  be 
borne. 

'  Well,  I  couldn't/  says  William,  as  if  finally. 

'  What  nonsense  !  You  are  not  an  idiot,  are  you  } 
You  can  put  an  idea  into  words !  And  you  had 
better  be  careful,  too,  William.  Murphy  says  he  is 
an  awfully  strict  old  man,  and  specially  hard  on 
poachers.* 

'  What  d'ye  mean  ?'  cries  William,  insulted.  '  Did 
Murphy — do  you — say  I  am  a  poacher  V 

*  Oh  no  ' — coldly,  rather.     '  But  still Murphy 

tells  me  he  was  very  strict  about  the  preservation  of 
his  game  when  he  lived  here  long  ago.  Murphy 
remembers  all  about  it ;  he  says  he  prosecuted  any 
number  of  people  during  his  (Murphy's)  time  for 
snaring  and  poaching,  and  hunting  them  with  grey- 
hounds, don't  you  know.' 

'  No,  I  don't,'  sulkily.  '  I  never  heard  of  a  par- 
tridge being  hunted  by  a  greyhound  in  my  life.  Murphy 


38  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

may!  He  seems  to  me  to  know  an  astound ing^ 
lot; 

'  Of  course,  William,  you  can  disparage  poor  old 
Murphy  if  you  will  ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  think  it  would 
be  better  if  in  this  instance  you  lent  an  attentive  ear 
to  him.  At  all  events,  he  knows  something  about 
this  new  man,  and  you — we  know  nothing.  Murphy 
says  that  the  Colonel  has  a  temper  hardly  to  be 
rivalled  for  badness  ;  that  he  used  to  pay  his  keepers 
according  to  the  numbers  of  poachers  they  brought  in 
or  convicted  ;  so,  of  course,  they  will  make  quite  a 
point  about  you,  and  Murphy  says,  too,  that ' 

'  Oh,  bother  him  !'  interrupts  William,  with  noisy 
wrath.  '  It  strikes  me  that  "  Misther  Murphy,"  as  ' — 
with  indignant  scorn — 'he  calls  himself,  must  have 
done  a  considerable  amount  of  poaching  in  his 
time,  to  know  so  much  about  the  game  laws  and  the 
Colonel.^ 

*I  don't  think  you  ought  to  take  it  like  that, 
William,'  says  his  sister,  in  a  long-suffering  manner. 

*  Don't  you  }  Well,  I  do.  You're  in  a  wax  with 
me  now  for  abusing  old  Murphy  ;  but  only  for  him 
this  would  have  blown  over,  and  you  would  not  have 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  39 

been  dragged  up  here  to  see  an  old  reprobate  of  a 
Col ' 

William's  words  die  upon  his  lips  ;  instinctively  he 
drops  his  voice.  Through  the  branching  trees  a 
stranger  is  seen  approaching — a  young  man,  tall, 
well-featured,  with  a  cigar  between  his  lips.  This 
last  he  withdraws  as  he  comes  face  to  face  with 
Nan. 

It  is  only  the  meeting  of  a  moment.  He  is  here  ; 
she  can  see  him — he  her  ;  and  now  he  is  gone.  The 
envious  trees  close  over  her,  and  enshroud  her  from 
his  view. 

It  was  a  mere  passing  glance  she  got,  but  Miss 
Delaney  is  of  those  who  can  see  a  good  deal  in  a  short 
time.  That  he  was  tall  she  could  assure  herself,  and 
that, though  his  features  weregood,and  built  on  strictly 
aristocratic  lines,  he  was  by  no  means  a  beauty.  A 
man  of  about  eight-and-twenty  or  thirty,  with  a 
kindly  expression,  but  a  suspicion  of  determination, 
that  might  on  occasion  sink  to  obstinacy,  about  his 
firm  mouth,  that  was  not  altogether  hidden  by  his 
moustache. 

'  Who  was  that  T  says  William  in  a  whisper,  meant 


40  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

to  represent   caution,  but  which  is  louder  and  more 
penetrating  than  his  usual  stentorian  tones. 

'  Hush  !  He'll  hear  you.  One  of  the  Colonel's 
guests,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  he  brought  some  people 
with  him.     He  has  nephews,  I  think.' 

*  Ugly  chap,'  says  William  impartially. 

'  I  dare  say.  Everyone  can't  be  as  lovely  as  you/ 
says  Nan,  with  a  laugh,  that  arises  out  of  this  bit  of 
sisterly  wit. 

*  I  don't  believe  he's  got  a  ha'porth  of  manners, 
anyhow,'  says  William  contemptuously.  *  He  stared 
at  you  as  if  you  had  seven  heads.' 

*  Perhaps  he  wished  I  had — I  dare  say,'  aggravat- 
ingly,  and  with  a  little  tilt  of  her  charming  chin,  '  he 
doesn't  often  see  anything  so  fine  as  me.' 

'  I  like  that,'  says  William,  with  huge  disgust. 
*  Give  me  a  girl  for  conceit.  I  believe  you  think  that 
pasty  complexion  of  yours  is  the  finest  thing  out — 
just  like  dough.     Anyhow,  it  isn't  manners  to  stare.' 

'  Charming  manners  in  this  instance,'  says  Miss 
Delaney  saucily.  *  He  is  evidently  a  thoroughly  well 
brought-up  young  man  ;  has  had  his  tastes  cultivated  ; 
knows  a  thing  when  he  sees  it.     Now  you,  William, 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  41 

are  very  backward.  You  should  study  me  all  day,  and 
then  you  would  be  prepared  to  understand  real 
beauty  when  you  come  face  to  face  with  it  in  your 
journey  through  life.     See,  Billy  ?' 

She  pinches  Billy's  ear  as  she  finishes  this  astound- 
ing piece  of  vanity,  and  William,  being  one  who  loves  a 
tussle,  forgives  her  everything,  and  loses  himself  all  at 
once  in  a  wild  romp.  It  ends  in  his  favour,  which 
still  further  restores  him  to  a  mood  of  excessive 
amiability.  Miss  Delaney,  rather  the  worse  for  wear, 
sinks  upon  a  bank,  and  sighs  heavily,  even  as  she 
laughs. 

'  Oh,  William,  what  a  bear  you  are  !'  cries  she, 
panting.  '  You  should  show  some  mercy.  But  I 
shall  be  equal  with  you  yet.  It  is  this  horrid  fever 
that  has  reduced  me  to  so  poor  a  frame  of  mind  and 
body.' 

*  Oh,  I  forgot!'  says  William  contritely.  *  I  shouldn't 
have  had  a  wrestle  with  you  just  now.  You  do  look 
white.     I  say,  Nan,  you  aren't  going  to  faint,  are  you  ?' 

'  Not  I  !'  valiantly.  '  Here,  give  me  your  hand.  Let 
us  go  on  to  the  house,  and  get  this  horrid  business 
over.' 


42  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  That  fellow  looked  kind/  says  William.  '  I  wish 
he  was  at  the  house  to  help  us  out  of  our  bother. 
But  of  course  he  is  miles  away  by  this  time.' 

A  sharp  turn  in  the  avenue  brings  them  at  this 
moment  within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of  the  house.  As 
they  ascend  the  stone  steps  that  lead  to  the  hall  door 
Nan's  heart  fails  her.  She  moves  with  extraordinary 
deliberation  for  her,  and  at  the  very  last,  as  she  sees  a 
tall  footman  advancing  towards  her  through  the  cool 
big  hall — the  door  being  open — she  says  timidly  to 
William  : 

*  It  is  your  affair.     You  ask  for  the  Colonel.' 
'  Is — is  your  master  in  ?'   says  William,  somewhat 
loosely,  and  with  a  rather  scared  appearance,  having 
all  responsibility  thus  thrust  upon  him  at  a  moment's 
notice. 

'  Yes,  sir/  says  the  much  beplushed  one,  with  a 
certain  hesitation.  He  regards  William  with  a 
cautious  eye.  This  shabby  boy,  who  is  still  so  un- 
mistakably a  gentleman,  is  plainly  a  puzzle  to  him. 
A  glance  at  Nan  satisfies  him. 

*Who  shall  I  say,  sir?'  asks  he,  with  extreme 
diffidence. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  43 

*  William  Dela — er — that  is — —  I  say,  you  might 
speak/  says  William,  turning  indignantly  in  his  con- 
fusion to  Nan,  who  is  just  behind  him.  His  face  is 
scarlet,  his  demeanour  that  of  a  condemned  criminal. 
Considering  the  errand  on  which  they  have  come, 
Nan  feels  this  severely. 

'  Say  Miss  Delaney,'  she  murmurs  gently  to  James, 
who,  with  perfect  breeding,  has  stood  apparently 
oblivious  of  asides,  and  confusion,  and  everything 
else.  Another  minute  places  her  and  the  amateur 
poacher  in  a  very  select  drawing-room,  where  she 
stands  waiting  miserably  for  the  entrance  of  the 
terrible  Colonel. 

One,  two,  five  minutes  go  by,  and  now  at  last  the 
door  opens.  Somebody  outside  gives  a  direction  to 
somebody  else,  probably  a  servant.  But  surely  the 
Colonel  (who  must  be  seventy,  if  a  day)  cannot  have 
a  voice  like  that.  The  door  is  pushed  wide  open  and 
a  man  enters. 

It  is  the  young  man  who  had  met  them  in  the  wood 

a  while  ago. 

***** 


CHAPTER  VI. 

'  Surely  Nature  must  have  meant  you 
For  a  syren  when  she  sent  you 

That  sweet  voice  and  glittering  hair.' 

Nan  turns  her  large,  rather  pathetic,  eyes  on  his. 
Perhaps  the  Colonel  is  out,  and  this — this  nephew  of 
his  (she  has  already  arranged  that  he  must  be  a 
nephew)  will  intercede  for  William.  But  William, 
who  surely  ought  to  be  the  one  to  begin  the  argument, 
is  hopelessly  dumb,  and  a  sense  of  nervousness  holds 
her  in  check. 

The  young  man  advances  slowly  towards  her. 

'  They  tell  me  you  wish  to  speak  to  me/  says  he 
very  gently,  battling  with  a  tolerable  success  with  the 
astonishment  that  is  overpowering  him. 

'  About  that  partridge,'  says  Nan  rather  faintly.  '  It 
— it  is  impossible  to  save  William  further ;'  and  she 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  45 

points  to  that  youth  with  a  trembling  hand.  'It  was 
killed  by  him,'  she  says. 

At  this  instant  it  occurs  to  her  that  she  would 
dearly  love  to  cry,  but  she  suppresses  the  kindly 
emotion. 

'  The  partridge  !'  echoes  the  young  man  vaguely, 
wildly.  '  What  partridge  ?'  What  on  earth  has  a 
partridge  got  to  do  with  the  advent  of  this  pretty  girl  } 
It  is  all  a  blank  to  him. 

*  A  partridge  that  was  killed  here  by  William  this 
morning.  Here,  in  Hume,'  says  Nan,  making  a 
desperate  effort  to  explain  matters.  '  I  know  how 
annoyed  people  are  when  their  game  is  disturbed, 
and ' 

'  I  am  not  annoyed,'  says  the  young  man,  smiling. 

*Your  staring  at  him.  'Of  course  not.  But  the 
Colonel ' 

'  Oh !'  says  he.  He  seems  all  at  once  to  be  en- 
lightened, and  grows  grave.  '  You  have  not  heard, 
then  ;  you  do  not  know  that  my  uncle  is  dead.' 

'  Your  uncle  ?  Was — was  he  the  Colonel  ?'  asks 
Nan  in  a  subdued  voice. 

'  Yes.' 


46  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

*  And  he  is  dead  ?'  She  falters,  blushes  vehemently, 
and  rises  to  her  feet.     *  Then  you — you  are ' 

'  John  Hume/  says  he  calmly. 

'  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter  at  all '  —  impatiently. 
'What  does  matter  is  that  you  are  the  master  here, 
and  that  it  was  your  bird ' 

'  You're  the  master  !  Why,  what  a  fuss  we  have 
been  making  about  nothing  !'  cries  William,  taking 
the  new  man  at  his  (William's)  valuation,  which  is 
evidently  a  kindly  one.  He  speaks  in  a  triumphant 
and  exceedingly  loud  tone,  and  by  a  providential 
interference  only  refrains  from  giving  voice  to  an 
ecstatic  *  Hurrah !'  that  must  have  been  regarded 
as  a  demonstration  of  joy  at  the  Colonel's  timely 
decease. 

'  Nothing  !  How  can  you  speak  like  that,  William  !' 
says  his  sister  reproachfully.  '  Everything  remains 
just  as  it  v/as,  and  you  must  now  apologize  to — 
to '     She  glances  at  Hume. 

'  No,  no.  I  won't  listen  to  such  a  word  as  apology,' 
declares  that  young  man,  smiling.  '  I,'  turning  to  the 
lad,  who  is  now  again  a  little  downcast — '  I  have  not 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  your  name  as  yet,  but  I  feel 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  47 

sure  we  must  be  near  neighbours  ;  at  least,  I  hope  so  ; 
and  perhaps  we  shall  be  friends.' 

*  Oh  yes,  I'm  sure  of  it  ''  says  the  grateful 
William  with  the  utmost  encouragement  in  look  and 
tone. 

*  That's  right,^  says  Mr.  Hume,  smiling  again  ;  and 
a  right  pleasant  smile  he  has.  '  And  in  a  week  or  so 
from  this  I  hope  you  will  come  up  here  very  often, 
and  help  me  and  my  friends  to  bring  down  some  of 
these  partridges,  that  I  regret  have  been  the  cause  of 
so  much  annoyance  to  you  and — your  sister  V 

There  is  a  gentle  question  conveyed.  Up  to  this 
he  had,  with  much  delicacy,  devoted  his  conversation 
entirely  to  the  appreciative  William  ;  but  now  he 
lets  his  eyes  rest  on  Nan,  who  is  standing  half  in 
shadow,  half  in  the  brilliant  sunshine,  making  a 
charming  picture. 

*  Yes,  my  sister,'  says  William.  Entirely  country- 
bred  as  the  lad  is,  and  unknowing  of  the  world  and 
its  courtly  ways,  he  has  still  so  much  good  old  blood 
in  him  that  a  touch  of  hauteur,  of  pride,  seems  to  fall 
upon  him  as  he  turns,  and  in  a  manner  presents  Nan 
to  this  supporter  of  his,  who  should  have  been   his 


48  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

judge.      'This  is  Nan,'  says  he  gently,  with  all  the 
garrulance  of  youth.     '  Our  name  is  Delaney.' 

It  is  a  regular  introduction,  and  Hume  bows 
gravely  to  Nan,  who  returns  the  salute  in  kind. 
Something  cold,  unfriendly,  in  the  girl's  face,  how- 
ever, drives  him  back  to  further  converse  with 
William,  who  is  plainly  open  to  advances  of  every 
kind. 

'  I  am  glad  to  know  your  name  and  you,'  says  he. 
*  Do  you  know,  I  have  been  more  lonely  than  I  can 
tell  you  until  this  kindly  partridge  drove  you  to  me. 
Well,  I  have  your  promise,  then,  to  come  up  next 
month,  and  help  me  to  thin  them  ?' 

*  Oh,  thank  you — you  are  awfully  good!'  says 
William,  fumbling  with  his  hat,  which  is  deplorably 
deficient  about  the  brim,   and   growing  red  as   any 

rose.     'That  would  mean  a  gun,  you  see,  and ' 

He  hesitates,  and  is  finally  so  far  lost  that  he  cannot 
go  on  again. 

'  Yours  is  an  old  one  V  questions  Hume  kindly. 
'I    haven't   one   at   all,'    blurts    out   William,   his 
complexion  growing  from  red  to  purple. 

*  Well,  I  should  think  not,'  says  Hume,  laughing. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  49 

*  Your  people  would  be  mad  to  let  a  boy  like  you  go 
about  armed,  and  in  this  "  distressful  country,"  too. 
But,'  looking  at  Nan,  '  if  I  promise  to  see  you  safely 
through,  do  you  think  they  would  trust  you  to  me  ? 
Would  you,  Miss  Delaney  V 

'  You  are  very  kind,'  says  Nan,  whose  words  seem 
to  come  with  an  effort  now,  and  whose  face  is  very 
white.  *  But  I  suppose  a  gun  is  not  everything. 
There  must  be  practice — one  must  be  accustomed  to 
shooting  ;  and  William  knows  nothing  of ' 

'I  do  !'  interrupts  William,  making  his  way  into 
the  argument  with  quite  a  desperate  rush.  Are  all 
the  halcyon  days  offered  to  him  to  be  lost  because  of 
a   secret    as   yet    withheld    from    the    family    circle? 

*  Sullivan  has  lent  me  his  gun  often  and  often,  and 
I've  shot  a  lot  of  things  when  out  with  him/ 

*  Oh,  William  !'  says  Miss  Delaney,  as  if  the  world 
had  come  to  an  end.  The  Sullivan  in  question  is  a 
notorious  poacher  in  and  about  Rossmoyne,  as  the 
small  village  is  called  that  lies  about  two  miles  from 
Rathmore. 

'Well,  a  fellow  must  learn  to  shoot  some  time,' 
says  William  resentfully.      '  And   Sullivan   isn't  half 

VOL.  I.  4 


50  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

as  bad  as  they  try  to  make  him  out.  If  he  does 
poach  a  bird  or  a  hare  now  and  then,  why,  what  harm 
is ' 

He  stops  dead  short  Nan  has  moved  away  from 
him,  and  is  addressing  Mr.  Hume  with  a  quiet  but 
rather  shamed  air  that  goes  to  William's  wicked 
heart. 

*You  see,'  says  she,  with  a  rather  mirthless  little 
smile,  'that  it  was  useless  my  bringing  him  here. 
He  doesn't  see  the  right  or  wrong  of  it.  He  actually 
supports  in  your  presence  the  most  notorious  poacher 
in  the  country.  After  this  we  can  hardly  expect  that 
you  will  condone  the  fault  that ' 

'Nonsense  !  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,'  cries  Hume, 
strangely  sorry  to  see  that  distress  upon  her  brow. 

*  But  really He  is  your  brother,  Miss  Delaney. 

You  must,  then,  be  accustomed  to  boys,  and  still  you 
would  condemn  my  friend  here,'  'laying  a  hand  on 
William's  shoulder,  '  because  he  thinks  that  all  wild 
things  were  created  for  the  enjoyment  of  every  man. 
The  game  laws  are  iniquitous  to  him  so  far  ;  and 
why  not .''  When  I  was  his  age' — with  a  light  and 
merry   laugh — *I    don't   believe   there  was    a   more 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  51 

disgraceful  young  poacher  than  I  was  in  the  whole  of 
Ireland.' 

'  If  you  speak  to  him  like  that,'  cries  Nan,  turning 
a  sweet  but  angry,  and  very  exhausted,  face  to  his, 
*  you  may  expect  to  see  him,  later  on,  a  victim  of  the 
law!' 

She  is  apparently  rather  proud  of  this  awful  speech, 
and  though  tears  gather  in  her  eyes,  she  surveys 
him  angrily  through  them. 

*  There  won't  be  any  law  if  he  comes  shooting  with 
me,'  says  Hume  gently. 

'  But  the  gun  belongs  to  Sullivan,  and  he  mightn't 
lend  it  ?'  says  William  in  quite  a  low  voice  for  him. 

'  Of  course  not,  when  you  are  having  a  day  with 
somebody  else,'  says  Mr.  Kume.  'And  as  for  that, 
I  always  keep  a  certain  number  of  guns  in  the 
armoury  to  accommodate  my  guests.'  This  is  a 
perfectly  bald  and  open  lie,  but  I  regret  to  say  that 
Mr.  Hume  tells  it  with  a  face  that  is  unabashed. 
'  One  of  those  guns  will  always  be  at  your  disposal !' 

*  Oh,  I  say !'  breathes  William,  who  is  too  far  gone 
in  joy  at  the  prospect  held  out  to  him  of  being  set 
loose  upon  the  world  with  a  fire  machine  to  kill  any 

4—2 


25  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

one  or  thing  that  comes  within  his  reach,  to  be  able 
to  put  his  gratitude  into  a  more  graceful  form  of 
speech.  'Nan — did  you  hear?  I  can  come,  can't 
I?' 

^  Yes/  says  Nan.  Even  the  effort  of  giving  this 
small  permission  seems  to  be  too  much  for  her.  Her 
hand,  that  had  been  resting  on  the  back  of  a  chair, 
gives  way,  looses  its  hold  altogether,  and-with  a  sharp 
sigh  she  falls  into  the  chair  itself.  It  is  only  a 
moment's  unconsciousness,  but  it  terrifies  the  lookers- 
on. 

William,  indeed,  shows  signs  of  extreme  self- 
reproach.  The  other  onlooker  is,  of  course,  exempt 
from  that  ;  but  nevertheless,  of  the  two,  he  seems  the 
most  distressed.  In  this  life,  as  you  will  perceive,  my 
clever  reader,  this  is  often  the  case. 

'She  is  ill  —  she  is  fainting/  says  Mr.  Hume,  his 
face  nearly  as  white  as  that  pretty  one  over  which  he 
is  bending. 

'  Oh  dear !  what's  the  matter  with  her  now  ?' 
says  William,  seizing  hold  of  Nan's  head,  and  lifting 
it  so  high  that  Mr.  Hume  interposes.  '  Nan — Nanny, 
speak  to  me.'      This    affectionate  appeal  being  dis- 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  53 

regarded    by   his    sister,    he    turns    for    comfort    to 
Hume. 

*  I'm  a  horrid  boy !'  says  he,  half  weeping  ;  '  I'm  a 
beast !  And  she's  been  so  ill,  too.  Awfully  ill. 
Murphy  says  she  will  soon  go  to  the  family  vault' 

'  Hold  your  tongue  !'  says  Mr.  Hume  sharply,  who 
can  see  that  Nan  is  recovering  consciousness  quickly. 
*  You  must  be  a  fool  to  talk  like  that  !  Good  heavens  ! 
if  she  were  to  hear  you,  she ' 

*  She  won't.  She  often  faints  like  that  since  she's 
had  the  fever,'  says  William,  still  so  contrite  that 
he  forgets  to  resent  the  other's  tone.  'She  wasn't 
fit  to  come  here  to-day,  but  she  would  do  it,  because 
of  me.  Murphy  said  it  would  be  the  death  of  her, 
but ' 

*  Who  is  Murphy?'  asks  Hume,  and,  having  asked 
the  question,  is  filled  with  a  sort  of  astonishment 
towards  himself,  in  that  he  can  feel  such  undeniable 
curiosity  towards  people  of  whose  existence  he  was 
ignorant  an  hour  ago. 

*  He's  our  servant,'  says  William.  '  We  haven't 
got  many,  only  him,  indeed,  and  Mrs.  Moriarty  ;  but 
Murphy,  Nan  says,  is  a  host  in  himself.     I'm  jolly 


54  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

glad,'  with  an  affectionate  glance  at  Hume,  '  that  all 
hosts  aren't  like  him.  I'm  sure  Murphy  would  have 
sent  me  to  prison  and  given  me  nothing  but  bread  and 
water  for  a  month  if  he  stood  in  your  shoes.' 

'Murphy  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  modern  Brutus,' 
says  Mr.  Hume.  He  is  bending  over  Nan,  and 
gently  chafing  the  pretty  hands  that  lie  so  passively  in 
his.  'I  wonder  he  didn't  see  the  injustice  of  letting 
your  sister  walk  up  here  to-day  in  her  weak  state  of 
health.' 

*  It  was  my  fault,  not  his.  He  was  mad  about  it. 
But  I — I  was  afraid  to  come  by  myself,'  says  William, 
blushing  furiously  with  shame  and  confusion,  yet 
getting  through  the  base  admission  like  a  man 
— more  honestly,  indeed,  than  would  most  men ! 
*  She's  been  dreadfully  ill,  and  as  weak  as  a  cat. 
Last  Thursday  was  the  first  day  she  was  out  for  a 
month  and  more.  How  are  you  now.  Nan  ?  You're 
better,  aren't  you  now  ?' 

This  very  anxiously  to  the  girl,  who  has  got  back 
some  colour  by  this  time,  and  who  is  making  an  effort 
to  rise. 

'  No,  don't  stir — don't !'  entreats  Mr.  Hume. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  55 

'  It  is  nothing,  nothing  really,'  says  Miss  Delaney, 
with  an  eager  desire  to  smile,  that  only  betrays  how 
seriously  ill  she   is  feeling.     '  If  I   were   only  in  the 

open  air This  room  is  so  warm — and  our  house 

is  very  near.     William,  I ' 

'  No,  don't  speak — don't  stir,'  says  Hume  again 
nervously.  Unconsciously  he  presses  the  hand  he  is 
holding,  and  Nan,  with  a  sharp  rush  of  blood  to  her 
white  face,  quickly  withdraws  from  his  grasp  that 
charming  member. 

'  I  am  so  angry  with  myself — so  sorry  !'  says  she. 
'  But  I  thought  I  could  manage  it — I — it  was  the 
heat,  I  suppose.' 

'  Well,  rest  there,  for  a  moment  at  all  events,'  says 
Hume,  hurrying  from  the  room  ;  and  Miss  Delaney,  in 
spite  of  her  protest,  is  still  so  far  a  prey  to  the  weak- 
ness that  has  been  her  companion  night  and  day  for 
so  many  weeks,  that  she  gladly  sinks  back  into  the 
comfortable  chair,  and  leaves  fate  and  William  to 
dispose  of  her. 

Presently  Hume  returns,  bringing  with  him  in  his 
hands  (minus  tray  or  any  of  the  customary  acces- 
sories) a  small  bottle  of  champagne  and  a  glass.     It 


56  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

is  impossible  for  Miss  Delaney  not  to  see  that  he  had 
refused  to  call  the  servants  to  his  assistance,  and 
had,  therefore,  been  reduced  to  the  exercising  of  his 
own  wit  in  this  little  matter  of  hospitality.  It  is 
impossible,  too,  not  to  acknowledge  the  delicacy 
that  had  led  to  this  act.  Gossip  in  small  country 
towns  runs  riot,  and  this  he  has  spared  her.  Of 
her  visit  to  Hume  Castle  all  the  world  will  know 
to-morrow  doubtless  ;  of  the  fact,  that  she  was  so 
unfortunate  as  to  faint  there,  the  world  will  know 
nothing. 

'Drink  this,'  says  Hume  gently.  Seeing  her  hesi- 
tate, he  hands  the  glass  to  William.  '  Make  your 
sister  drink  it,'  he  says  ;  whereupon  William,  who  is 
nothing  if  not  sternly  practical,  seizes  her  round  the 
neck,  and,  holding  her  in  a  vice,  as  though  afraid  she 
may  run  away  before  the  accomplishment  of  his  fell 
design,  presses  the  glass  against  her  lips.  There  is 
only,  therefore,  strangulation  or  champagne  before 
Nan,  and  being  a  wise  girl,  she  accepts  the  milder 
alternative. 

It  does  her  more  immediate  good  than  she  could 
have  believed.     Once  again  her  young  blood  begins  to 


A  BORN  C0(2UETTE.  57 

course  merrily  within  her  veins  ;  her  colour  grows  more 
perfect  ;  she  rises  lij^htly  to  her  feet. 

'  I  have  much  to  thank  you  for,'  she  says,  holding 
out  her  hand  to  Hume.  '  For  your  goodness  to 
William  ;  for ' 

'  You  are  better — surely  better  ?'  asks  he,  ignoring 
the  gratitude  she  would  have  given  voice  to. 

'  Not  better — well  !  I  am  sorry  to  have  been  so 
troublesome,'  with  a  quick  blush,  '  but ' 

'  Don't  put  it  like  that,'  says  he,  with  a  smile  that  is 
half  a  frown.  '  And  if  you  will  go  now,  let  me  order 
the  carriage  for  you.' 

*  Oh  no  I  not  for  worlds  !'  in  a  little  horrified  tone. 
Heavens  !  Fancy  driving  up  to  the  hall  door  at  home 
in  a  carriage  and  pair,  in  all  probability,  and  in  all  pro- 
bability, too,  this  young  man  beside  her,  who  should, 
she  still  feels,  have  been  a  gray-haired  martinet  of  an 
old  colonel.  She  can  figure  to  herself  all  the  younger 
branches  of  the  family  rushing  in  a  body  to  the  door  to 
find  out  for  themselves  the  meaning  of  her  triumphant 
return,  and  all  their  questions  and  comments,  and 
Hume's  calm  criticism  on  it  all,  and — and  that  shabby 
old  drawing-room. 


58  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  I  really  think  you  had  better,'  says  Hume,  still 
dwelling  on  the  carriage  that  has  caused  her  so  much 
troubled  thought. 

*  Thank  you — but  no,  indeed,'  says  she  decisively. 
'  Why,  our  home  is  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
here.' 

'Oh,  so  near!'  says  Hume.  He  seems  unaccount- 
ably pleased  at  this  intelligence  '  Well,  I  shall  see 
you  safely  home,  at  all  events,  if  only  to  assure  myself 
that  no  further  troubles  overtake  you.' 

Nan  laughs.  Plainly  he  is  a  persistent  young  man, 
not  got  rid  of  easily. 

'Come,  if  you  like,'  says  she,  seeing  nothing  else  is 
left  her.  A  wild  hope  that  the  children's  pinafores 
will,  by  some  miraculous  agency,  be  clean,  or  that 
those  terrible  imps  will  be  lost  to  sight  in  the  back 
garden,  runs  through  her  mind  ;  and  then  she  follows 
Hume  through  a  pretty  side  door,  all  glass,  and  half 
covered  by  draperies  of  soft  Indian  silks,  into  a  con- 
servatory, and  from  that  into  the  open  air. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

'  She  smiled  on  many,  just  for  fun  ; 
I  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in  it.' 

'  What  a  lovely  house !'  says  Nan,  with  sincere 
admiration. 

'  It  will  be  all  right  after  a  bit/  returns  he  care- 
lessly. *  But  in  spite  of  the  fellows  I  sent  down  to 
see  to  it,  it  wants  a  good  deal  still.  lam  afraid  you 
are  taking  away  a  rather  unkindly  memory  of  it  to- 
day, but  next  time  you  come ' 

'  Next  time,'  says  Nan,  opening  her  eyes.  *  Oh, 
surely  my  one  mistake  will  be  sufficient.' 

'  But  when  my  sister  arrives,  in  about  three  weeks 
or  so,  I  hope  you  will  be  good  enough  to  call  on  her,' 
says  Hume  pleasantly.  'And  that  —  though,  of 
course,  I  have  no  right  to  ask  any  favour  of  so  great  a 


6o  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

stranger — that  you  will  help  me  to  make  the  country 
agreeable  to  her.' 

*  We'll  call,  of  course,'  says  Nan,  who  has  somehow 
begun  to  feel  dispirited.     *  But  as  to ' 

'  If  she's  depending  on  us  to  make  the  place  lively 
for  her,  she'll  have  a  bad  time  of  it,'  says  William, 
with  an  outburst  of  merriment  that  Nan  in  her  anger 
calls  a  'guffaw.'  'You  should  see  father!  The  very 
thought  of  a  dance,  or  a  picnic  even,  puts  his  hair  on 
end  like  an  old  tom-cat,  and  besides ' 

'William!'  says  Miss  Delaney,  in  an  awful  tone. 

'  Well — what  ?'  retorts  William  sulkily.  *  I  was 
only  going  to  say,  "  And  besides  that  we  have  no 
money !" ' 

This  is  terrible !  And  to  so  utter  a  stranger,  too. 
As  if  overcome  by  William's  awful  frankness.  Miss 
Delaney  lays  down  her  arms. 

'Well,  we  haven't,'  says  she  monotonously,  and 
then  all  at  once  something  in  the  whole  situation 
strikes  her  as  being  comic  to  the  last  degree.  She 
struggles  with  herself  ineffectually,  and  finally  breaks 
into  irrepressible  laughter. 

Such  merry,  happy,  musical  laughter  !     Was  ever 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  6i 

music  sweet  or  gay  as  it  ?  Hume,  who  has  been  bred 
amongst  such  town  misses  as  have  been  taught  that 
open  demonstrations  of  any  kind  of  mirth,  or  joy,  or 
anger,  are  only  for  the  vulgar,  is  electrified  by  it  into 
a  passionate  admiration.  What  a  young  girl  she  is  ! 
What  a  sweet,  delicate  touch  of  youth  enshrouds  her, 
glorifying  every  movement  of  her  svelte  body  ! 

All  at  once — it  is  the  most  unaccountable,  the 
most  absurd  thing  in  the  world,  he  admits — but  at 
this  moment  it  does  occur  to  him  how  often  his 
friends  have  suggested  to  him  the  charms  of  the 
married  state.  Idiots,  he  had  been  rude  enough  to 
call  them  to  himself  often  and  often ;  yet  were  they 
such  idiots,  after  all?  A  wandering  doubt  about  his 
pet  belief  begins  to  play  havoc  with  his  mind. 

William,  whose  sulky  moods  are  never  proof  against 
laughter,  here  gives  in  to  Nan's  joyous  mirth,  and 
presently  Mr.  Hume,  as  if  unable  to  restrain  himself, 
joins  in  with  the  brother  and  sister,  and  the  trio — 
who  would  have  been  puzzled  to  explain  the  cause  of 
their  jollity  if  put  to  it — laugh  unreservedly  until  the 
entrance  gate  is  reached. 

One  outcome  of  this  general  camaraderie  is  that 


62  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Nan  there  and  then  loses  all  sense  of  the  shyness  that 
but  half  an  hour  ago  distressed  her  so  keenly  when  in 
the  presence  of  the  master  of  Hume  Castle.  Then 
he  was  an  autocrat,  a  being  to  be  dreaded,  a  creature 
on  whom  William's  reputation  depended.  Now  he  is 
a  fellow-mortal,  and  one,  whispers  this  deplorable 
coquette  to  herself,  not  altogether  blind  to  her  charms. 
To  create  contempt  in  a  woman  for  a  man,  assure  her 
that  the  man  is  hopelessly  in  love  with  her.  After 
that  render  to  him  your  deepest  commiseration,  for 
she'll  lead  him  a  life  that 

It  is  now  evening.  The  giant  sun  has  dropped 
asleep  ;  all  Nature  lies  quiescent,  as  if  dreading  to 
awake  him.  Up  high,  far  away,  a  faint  pale  moon  has 
climbed  the  heavens,  shadowy,  uncertain,  as  though 
afraid  of  its  own  audacity.  Such  a  young  Diana ! 
In  thought  Mr.  Hume  compares  it  to  the  pale,  slight 
girl  by  his  side — so  fair,  so  fair.  Could  she  ever  hear, 
or  care  to  hear? 

Just  outside  the  gateway,  two  young  men  coming 
leisurely  up  the  road  meet  their  eyes.  William  gives 
way  to  a  boisterous  shout  of  welcome. 

*  Here's  Freddy  Croker,'  cries  he. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  63 

Mr.  Croker  acknowledges  this  joyous  recognition 
with  due  gratitude. 

'  My  beloved  William,'  says  he,  '  this  is  indeed  a 
pleasure !'  He  holds  out  his  arms  with  the  evident 
intention  of  pressing  William  to  his  bosom,  a  kindly, 
not  to  say  affectionate,  act,  viewed,,  however,  by 
William  with  distinct  suspicion. 

'  Oh,  bother  !'  says  that  youth,  eluding  the  promised 
hug,  and  getting  behind  Mr.  Hume,  who  is  looking  at 
these  two  new  neighbours  of  his  with  some  interest. 

Croker,  who  is  about  Hume's  own  height,  is  a 
stalwart  man  of  twenty-seven,  with  brown  hair,  brown 
eyes,  brown  skin.  A  very  ordinary  young  man,  with 
nothing  in  particular  to  distinguish  him  from  dozens 
of  his  fellows,  except,  perhaps,  the  very  lovable  ex- 
pression that  makes  his  large  mouth  almost  hand- 
some. Hume,  after  one  swift  glance  at  him,  takes  his 
measure  to  a  nicety,  and  decides  upon  liking  him  ; 
but  the  other — Croker's  companion — is  of  an  alto- 
gether different  type. 

A  very  slight  man,  less  than  middle  height,  with  a 
sallow  complexion,  and  black  hair  and  eyes — peculiar 
QyQS,  deep,  searching,  almost  fierce.     There  is  a  touch 


64  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

of  self-repression  about  the  whole  face  that  irresistibly 
attracts,  and  warns  one  va^^uely  that  a  volcano,  in  all 
possibility,  may  lie  beneath  that  studiously  calm 
exterior.  The  black  eyes  are  now  fixed  on  Miss 
Delaney. 

'Why,  Nan,'  says  Croker,  with  all  the  freedom  of 
an  old  friend,  "tis  a  cure  for  "sair  een  "  to  see  you 
outside  the  walls  of  Rathmore.     Better,  eh  ?' 

'  Rather  foolish,  isn't  it  ?'  says  his  companion,  whose 
name  is  Ffrench — Boyle  Ffrench,  bachelor,  captain  in 
her  Majesty's  14th  Hussars.  '  It  should  be  something 
very  special  that  induced  you  to  try  your  strength 
like  this,' 

There  is  a  coldness  in  his  tone,  and  yet  an  almost 
burning  interest  that  strikes  on  Hume's  ear. 

*  You  are  right  :  it  was  something  special,'  says 
Miss  Delaney,  with  a  little  laugh,  that  has  a  good  deal 
of  nervousness  in  it.  That  she  has  just  come  out  of 
the  gates  of  Hume,  with  its  master  by  her  side,  is 
apparent  to  all  beholders.  How  is  she  to  explain  her 
presence  here  .'*  At  any  other  time,  under  different 
circumstances,  she  would  have  found  it  quite  a  simple 
matter  to  give   a   graphic   description    of  William's 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  65 

crime,  and  her  rush  to  the  rescue — to  these  two  old 
friends  ;  but  just  now,  with  the  old  tired  feeling  on  her 
and  this  strange  man  by  her  side,  she  finds  all  at  once 
that  words  have  failed  her,  and  ideas  too. 

Will  they  think  she  has  been  making  an  evening 
call  on  Mr.  Hume?  A  nervous  desire  to  laugh  at  this 
absurd  reading  of  her  presence  here  is  mingled  with 
a  most  unjust  indignation  towards  Hume,  that  he  has 
failed  to  be  that  respectably  odious  old  Colonel  he 
ought  to  have  been. 

•"  Something  special  here  V  asks  Ffrench.  His 
glance  seems  to  just  touch  the  gates  of  Hume.  There 
is  ill-suppressed  excitement  in  his  tone  and  expres- 
sion, and  his  sallow  complexion  seems  to  Hume  — 
who  is  intently  watching  him — to  grow  a  shade  paler. 

'  Sits  the  wind  in  that  quarter  ?'  says  he  to  himself; 
and  all  at  once  that  curious  desire  for  victory  that 
reigns  in  all  breasts,  that  longing  to  overcome,  grows 
warm  within  him,  and  thrills  him  to  keener  life. 
The  idea  is  formless,  and  barely  living,  yet  he  has  de- 
cided within  himself  that  this  girl  beside  him  shall 
marry  him — not  Ffrench  ;  nor  any  other  man.  But, 
by  all  the  powers  of  earth,  not  Ffrench  ! 

VOL.  I.  5 


66  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Besides  that  excitement,  there  had  been  just  a 
suspicion  of  insolence  or  something  nasty  in  the 
latter's  tone,  born  no  doubt  of  passionate  jealousy,  but 
none  the  less  objectionable. 

'  Yes ;  here.     It  was  about  William '  begins  Nan, 

and  then  falters  and  pauses  as  if  at  a  loss  how  to  go 
on.  She  is  looking  very  white  and  tired — terribly 
white.  Hume,  with  his  customary  gracious  smile  on 
his  lips,  turns  to  her  : 

*  You  will  introduce  me  to  your  friend?'  says  he,  and, 
having  obtained  the  introduction,  goes  on  fluently : 

*  Yes  ;  I  am  afraid  it  was  the  fault  of  our  young 
friend  here/  giving  William's  ear  a  gentle  tug.  '  It 
appears  that  he  and  a  partridge  came  into  collision — 
a  skirmish  that  ended  badly  for  the  partridge.  And 
Miss  Delaney,  believing  me  to  be  my  own  uncle,  who, 
poor  man  !  (I  never  saw  him)  has  been  dead  a  month 
or  more,  came  up  here  this  afternoon  to  gain  absolu- 
tion for  this  erring  mortal — this  deplorable  sinner  ;'  he 
once  again  pinches  the  deplorable  sinner's  ear,  who, 
lost  to  grace,  gives  way  to  light  laughter  beneath  this 
punishment.  '  I  have  given  you  the  story  in  one 
chapter,  for  which  you  should  be  grateful,'  says  Hume, 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  67 

laughing.  *  It  wasn't  worth  a  line  more,  eh  ?'  ad- 
dressing Ffrench  directly,  who  looks  back  at  him  with 
his  impenetrable  eyes,  but  says  nothing. 

'  Not  half  a  one,'  says  Croker.  We  have  just  come 
from  Rathmore,  where  Penelope,'  to  Nan,  '  told  us  all 
about  it.' 

*  Why,  you  knew,'  cries  Nan  quickly,  her  eyes  on 
Ffrench,  who  seems  a  trifle  uneasy  beneath  their  fire — 
'you  knew  everything,  and  yet  you  asked  !  Well,  now, 
why,  I  wonder  ?' 

There  is  something  in  her  tone  that  compels  an 
answer.  Ffrench,  after  a  swift  glance  at  her,  acknow- 
ledges that. 

*  Surely  you  know  why,'  says  he  in  a  low  tone, 
meant  for  her  alone  —  a  tone  fraught  with  love, 
meant  to  remind  her  of  his  passion,  but  meant,  too, 
to  avoid  a  more  difficult  explanation  of  his  conduct. 

'  We  saw  Penelope  ;  she  told  us,'  says  Croker. 

There  is  something  in  the  way  he  mentions 
Penelope's  name  that  betrays  his  interest  in  that 
pretty  creature.  '  Are  you  going  home  now.  Nan  ? 
Well,  we'll  go  with  you.' 

So  together  they  all  return  to  Rathmore,  reading 

5—2 


68  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

each  other  as  they  go,  and  there  Hume  makes  the 
acquaintance  of  Penelope,  and  Gladys,  and  the  others, 
the  pinafores  of  *  the  others '  being  in  a  highly 
advanced  stage  of  dirt,  the  owners  of  them  having 
spent  their  afternoon  on  the  borders  of  the  duck- 
pond. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

*  My  aunt !  my  poor  deluded  aunt ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray  : 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 
In  such  a  spring-like  way  ?' 

*  Well,  dears,  this  seems  to  be  quite  a  godsend,  this 
neighbour  of  ours,'  says  Mrs.  Manly,  entering  the 
Rathmore  drawing-room — a  most  dilapidated  spot — 
a  week  later. 

She  is  the  one  member  of  the  Delaney  family,  out- 
side the  immediate  family  circle,  who  is  to  them  well 
known — their  mother's,  not  their  father's  sister,  a  small, 
sprightly,  well-meaning,  but  unsympathetic  w^oman, 
who  had  grossly  offended  an  aristocratic  but  impe- 
cunious family  by  marrying  a  Dublin  merchant.  She 
was  the  youngest  of  that  family,  and  perhaps  had 
tired  of  the  perpetual  shifts  and  make-believes  that 
had  helped    them  to  get  through  life  to  their  own 


^o  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

respect  but  with  indescribable  discomfort ;  and  when 
occasion  threw  a  comfortable  competence  in  her  way, 
an  existence  where  the  worry  of  unpaid  bills  need 
never  be  known,  closed  with  it,  and,  defying  public  and 
family  comment,  married  a  low-born  but  otherwise 
most  estimable  merchant. 

It  had  surprised  her  to  find  that  he  held  quite  a 
good  position  in  Dublin,  that  he  was  known  there  in 
very  proper  circles,  and  that  she — his  wife — cut  no 
poor  figure  even  at  the  '  Cawstle,'  as  it  was  there  called. 
Brewers  and  distillery  men  were  not  to  be  lightly  re- 
garded in  '  Dublin  town,'  and  the  despised  Manly 
was  better  than  the  general  ruck.  He  was  on  the 
point  of  renovating  a  parish  church,  and  raising  it  to 
the  rank  of  a  cathedral,  when  mighty  Death  inter- 
vened, and,  seizing  him,  he  died. 

He  had  lived,  he  had  made  money,  he  had  died — 
the  one  correct  action  of  his  life,  said  her  relations  ; 
at  all  events,  he  did  die,  and  left  his  widow  a  very 
considerable  fortune,  to  which  she  was  by  no  means 
indifferent.  Perhaps  she  thought  she  had  earned  it 
hard  by  marrying  beneath  her,  because  she  clung  to 
it  lovingly.    She  was,  indeed,  what  is  vulgarly  termed 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  71 

close-fisted,  and  saw  very  strong  reason  for  it,  before 
she  parted  with  a  five-pound  note  to  anyone  but 
herself.  To  the  latter,  however,  she  was  nobly 
liberal. 

She  calls  herself  thirty-five,  which  proves  her  in- 
tegrity, as  she  still  wants  a  month  or  two  of  forty.  A 
woman  between  thirty  and  forty  always  considers 
herself  much  younger  than  does  a  woman  between 
twenty  and  thirty.  Julie  Manly — she  affects  the 
sprightly,  spirituelle  manner  that  she  believes  belongs 
to  her  French  neighbours,  however,  and  objects  to 
the  common  Julia.  Juli^  now  !  How  sweet !  how 
musical !  She  would  be  called  Julie  by  all  her  friends  ; 
a  touch  of  frivolity  sternly  set  upon  by  her  Delaney 
nieces,  who  call  her  Julia  in  season  and  out  of  it. 
The  latter,  the  fair  Julie  objects  to  most,  as  it  means 
when  half  the  county  is  present. 

She  is  one  of  those  essentially  selfish  beings  who, 
with  a  heart  of  wood,  have  also  a  most  affectionate 
manner — a  real,  lovely,  caressing  manner,  that  an 
angel  might  be  proud  of.  It  impresses  most  people, 
and  prepossesses  them  in  her  favour  ;  but  not  her 
nieces,  and  least  of  all — Murphy.     That  autocrat  of 


72  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

the  breakfast  and  luncheon  and  dinner  table  at  Rath- 
more  regards  her  ever  with  a  malevolent  eye. 

'  To  see  her  rigged  out  in  all  the  colours  of  the 
rainbow,  for  all  the  world  like  an  ould  paycock  !'  he 
would  say,  '  an'  them  poor  childer  badly  off  for  want 

of  a  silk  gown,  that  should  be  theirs  by  rights 

Arrah !  may  the  devil  fly  away  wid  her  for  an  ould 
skinflint,  say  I.  Faix,  I  wish  I  could  buy  her  in  at 
my  price,  an'  sell  her  at  her  own,  an'  I'd  be  a  made 
man  for  life.' 

But  these  flowers  of  speech  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Murphy,  though  now  and  then  delicately  conveyed  to 
her  by  her  maid,  fail  to  waken  Mrs.  Manly  to  a  sense 
of  her  meanness.  She  treats  them  as  she  considers 
the  author  ought  to  be  treated,  with  silent  contempt, 
having  conceived  as  violent  a  dislike  for  him  as  that 
honest  if  somewhat  aggravating  old  person  has  culti- 
vated for  her. 

For  Julia — the  Delaney  girls  never  call  her  *  aunt,' 
except  on  the  'out  of  season  '  occasions — for  Julia  to 
ever  dream  of  herself  as  possessing  a  fault  would  be  to 
upset  every  theory  she  has  ever  entertained.  She  is 
indeed   generosity  itself  to  her  own  virtues,  to  say 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  73 

nothing  of  her  vices.  Should  she  elect  to  gown  her- 
self in  the  latest  Paris  fashions  (and  she  always  does 
so  elect),  it  is  simply  because  Providence  has  meant 
her  to  dress  herself  according  to  her  station  in  life,  and 
so  far  as  lieth  in  her  to  be  a  help  and  a  comfort  and  a 
blessing  to  the  poor  sempstresses  and  fitters  and  in- 
ventors that  go  to  make  up  the  big  sum  of  those  who 
seem  born  but  to  titillate  the  extravagances  of  the 
rich.  Should  she  (which  is  very  seldom)  send  a  cheque 
to  the  infirmary  in  the  next  town,  it  is  not  because 
she  wishes  to  curry  favour  with  the  gentry  round,  and 
my  Lord  Bishop,  who  is  intimately  connected  with  it, 
but  because  a  Heaven-sent  spirit  is  hers.  She  is, 
indeed,  rather  a  favourite  with  the  Bishop,  who,  good 
man,  has  no  time  to  discern  between  cheques  and 
godly  living. 

'A  downright  godsend  !'  says  Mrs.  Manly,  picking 
out  by  instinct  the  one  comfortable  chair  in  the  draw- 
ing-foom,  and  descending  carefully  into  it.  It  would 
be  an  atrocity  to  destroy  the  perfect  build  of  this  her 
latest  gown  from  Worth  that  she  is  wearing.  She  is 
on  her  way  to  an  afternoon  at  Lady  Cashelmore's, 
and  has  dropped  in  on  the  Delaney  girls,  secretly  to 


74  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

show  her  gown,  openly  to  talk  about  John  Hume. 
The  Delaneys  had  received  a  card  for  the  Cashelmore 
garden-party,  too,  but  a  dearth  of  gowns  had  compelled 
them  to  send  a  refusal. 

'  A  young  man,  girls  !  An  event  in  itself.  And  by 
no  means  destitute  of  coin.  Well  !  What  under 
heaven  can  send  a  young  man  here,  who  has  money 
to  go  elsewhere,  passes  my  comprehension.' 

*  Therefore  it  would  be  useless  for  anyone  else  to 
try  to  comprehend  it,'  says  Penelope  calmly.  ^  Where 
are  you  going,  Julia  ^  You  are  magnificent  enough 
for  a  North  American  war-dance.' 

'  To  Cashelmore  ?'  says  Julia  with  dignity. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  Lord  Cashelmore  ?  Has  he  sent 
for  you  in  person  ?'  demands  Nan.  *  Shows  his  taste, 
say  I.     But  a  little  pronounced,  eh,  Julia  V 

'  He'll  marry  you_,  if  you  don't  look  out/  says  Gladys, 
who  is  a  saucy  little  thing  in  spite  of  her  angel  face. 

'  Ah,  you  girls!  you  girls !'  cries  Julia,  in  a  gushing 
tone,  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  at  the  suggestion 
of  Gladys.    *  I  wish  one  of  you  were  coming  with  me. 

You  might  have  a  chance,  whereas  your  old  auntie ' 

Here  she  laughs  in  a  little  tittering  conscious  manner 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  75 

that  incenses  the  girls  beyond  bounds,  and  suggests 
the  idea  that  her  being  too  old  for  anyone  is  out  of 
the  question,  and  quite  an  amazingly  good  joke. 

*  Why,  aren't  you  coming  to  support  me  ?'  cries  she, 
blind  to  their  disgusted  looks.  '  I  can't  bear  to  put  in 
an  appearance  alone.' 

'  You  really  can't  suppose,  Julia,  that  we  would  go 
to  Lady  Cashelmore's  in  those  old  gowns,'  says  Nan 
indignantly,  sarcasm  having  at  last  given  place  to 
righteous  anger.  '  Not  likely  !  It  is  a  simple  thing  to 
stay  at  home  ;  it  is  an  abominable  thing  to  go  out 
shabby.' 

'Well,  really  now,  I  think  you  looked  very  well  in 
those  white  frocks  of  yours,'  says  Mrs.  Manly  with  a 
cheerful  sm^ile. 

*When.'*  At  the  Leslies'?  It  was  awfully  good  of 
you  to  think  so,'  says  Penelope,  '  considering  it  was 
for  that  occasion  they  were  washed  for  the  fifth 
time.' 

'  No  ;  you  don't  say  so  !'  says  Julia  with  delicious 
astonishment.  *  Well,  I  always  have  said  that  there 
is  nothing  like  a  good  linen  for  wear.  By-the-bye,  how 
do  you  like  my  bonnet,  girls  ?     Tasty,  eh  ?' 


76  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

*  Very  handsome,'  says  Nan  coldly,  almost  defiantly. 
It  is  her  own  longing  to  say  something  uncivil  that 
she  is  defying.  Penelope,  not  being  so  sure  of  her 
powers  of  self- suppression,  takes  refuge  in  a  severe 
fit  of  coughing  that  threatens  to  part  her  soul  from 
her  body,  but  Gladys,  at  all  events,  is  equal  to  the 
occasion. 

*  I  have  always  wondered,^  says  she  in  her  clear 
soprano,  '  why  it  is  that  those  perfect  bonnets  are  so 
dreadfully  unbecoming.' 

Tableau! 

Gladys,  declining  to  be  withered  by  the  glances 
bestowed  on  her  by  both  her  sisters,  sits  gazing  with 
quite  an  infantile  unconsciousness  at  her  outraged 
aunt.  The  aunt  at  least  should  have  felt  outraged, 
but  Mrs.  Manly  is  too  well  assured  of  her  own  charms 
to  let  herself  feel  flouted  by  the  untutored  criticism  of 
a  child. 

*  Dear  little  Gladys — so  crude,  so  charmingly  down- 
right,' says  she,  with  a  smile  that  brings  '  dear  little 
Gladys  '  to  a  rather  dangerous  state  of  mind.  '  Well, 
I'm  sorry  the  bonnet  doesn't  please  you,  dear  ; 
but   one  can't  dress  to   suit  every   taste.      Boyle,  at 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  77 

all  events,  was  very  complimentary  about  it.  He 
is  to  be  here  presently  to  take  me  on  to  Cashel- 
more.' 

Boyle  Ffrench  is  her  nephew,  the  son  of  a  brother 
long  dead,  and  therefore  cousin  to  the  Delaneys. 
With  a  captaincy  in  the  Hussars,  and  a  paltry  five 
hundred  a  year,  he  is  about  as  poor  a  young  man  as 
one  need  know.  That  Mrs.  Manly  has  money,  that  he 
has  as  good  a  right  to  it,  or  even  a  better  than  any- 
body, is  a  thought  that  frequently  remains  with 
him.  It  is  natural,  strengthened  by  the  fact  that, 
though  she  has  never  openly  declared  him  her  heir, 
she  has  stood  to  him  in  little  matters,  and  makes 
it  a  thing  of  course,  that  he  should  spend  his  leave 
at  Ballybrack,  her  place. 

'Well,  and  how's  your  father.?'  asks  she  pre- 
sently. 

•  We  don't  know,' says  Nan.  'That  he  is  alive  we 
do  know,  because  his  breakfast-tray  was  sent  to  him 
this  morning,  and,  unless  he  has  conjured  up  a  fami- 
liar to  eat  it  for  him,  he  certainly  finished  his  poached 
eggs.  But  you  know  it  is  as  much  as  our  lives  are 
worth  to  make  an  attempt  to  enter  his  room.     Last 


78  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

time  Bartle  tried Well,  you  know  all  about  that. 

And  I'm  sure  we're  not  likely  to  forget  it' 

*  Suck  a  row  !'  says  Penelope. 

*  It's  disgraceful !'  says  Mrs.  Manly,  with  more  real 
warmth  of  manner  than  she  has  yet  shown.  '  But 
your  mother  spoiled  him.  What  a  man !  What  a 
father !  Good  gracious,  has  he  no  sense  of  responsi- 
bility "i  Does  he  think  he  brought  you  into  this  world 
only  to  ignore  you }  I  wish  to  goodness  I  could  get 
at  him  to  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind.' 

*  A  piece  would  do  no  good  ;  it  would  take  the 
whole  of  the  biggest  mind  in  Europe  to  make  him 
view  us  in  the  light  of  anything  save  encumbrances,' 
says  Nan,  hardly  bitterly,  yet  with  a  touch  of  dis- 
content. 

'  Well,  I  hope  he  will  so  far  rouse  himself  as  to  givQ 
you  some  money  soon,'  says  Mrs.  Manly.  '  You'll 
want  it,  as  I  intend  to  give  a  dance  the  week  after 
next' 

*0h!'  cries  Nan,  her  eyes  sparkling;  she  has  just 
bought  and  made  up  a  charming  evening  gown. 

*  Oh !'  cries  Penelope,  with  sincere  dismay.  She 
has  spent  her  last  month's  money  on  a  hat,  and  boots, 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  79 

and   gloves,    fondly    believing    an    evening   gown    in 
Rossmoyne  to  be  entirely  useless. 

*  Oh !'  cries  Gladys,  craning  forward  her  long  young 
neck,  and  fixing  her  aunt  with  a  captivating  smile. 

*  You'll  ask  me,  too,  Julia,  won't  you  ?'  says  she. 
'  Ah,  you  will  now — what  T 

'  Certainly  not,'  says  Mrs.  Manly  severely.  '  What, 
a  baby  like  you,  that  ought  to  be  in  the  schoolroom, 
if  your  father  was  a  father.  Nonsense,  child  !  I  can't 
imagine  how  you  could  suggest  such  a  thing.  But, 
really,  I  often  think  the  world  is  turning  upside 
down.' 

*  Oh,  never  mind ;  it  doesn't  matter,'  says  Gladys, 
with  an  attempt  at  bravery,  that  does  not  hide  from 
Nan  or  Penelope  the  fact  of  her  having  tears  in  her 
eyes.  In  truth  she  is  bitterly  disappointed  ;  and  one 
thought  adds  poignancy  to  her  regret.  '  If — if  only 
she  had  recollected  to  call  her  Julie,  perhaps — 
perhaps ' 

'  Gladys  is  sixteen,'  begins  Nan  earnestly.  '  A 
great  many  girls  go  out  at  sixteen,  and  Gladys  has  so 
few ' 

*  Girls  without  two  elder  sisters  !'  says  Mrs.  Manly^ 


So  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

with  all  the  air  of  a  thorough  worldling.  This  is  an 
air  which  she  produces  now  and  then,  and  on  which 
she  prides  herself.  '  No,  not  another  word,  Penelope. 
I  know  what  is  due  to  you  three  poor  motherless  girls, 
if  nobody  else  does.' 

In  her  heart,  she  fondly  believes  she  is  the  guardian 
angel  of  her  dead  sister's  children. 

*  How  those  pDor  dear  creatures  at  Rathmore  would 

get  on  without  me '  is  her  usual  beginning  of  many 

a  conversation  with  her  neighbours  round.  And 
though  now  Penelope,  and  now  Nan,  beseech  her  in 
turn,  she  is  deaf  to  their  charming,  and  declines  alto- 
gether to  give  Gladys  an  invitation  to  her  dance. 
Perhaps  the  knowledge  that  already  she  has  con- 
siderably more  women  than  men  on  her  invitation 
cards  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  her  virtuous  refusal. 

'  My  dear  Gladys,  keep  your  youth  while  you  can,' 
says  she  to  the  disgusted  Gladys.  '  Years  hence  you 
will  be  glad  of  my  refusal  of  to-day :  even  your  sisters 
are,  in  my  opinion,  almost  too  young  for  a  big  affair 
such  as  I  propose  having.' 

Here  the  hearts  of  Nan  and  Penelope  beat  high. 

'  But  then,'  goes  on  the  moralist  slowly,  '  one  can't 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  8i 

be  too  hard,  and  Nan ' — here  she  looks  at  the 
girl,  and,  as  though  struck  by  something  in  the 
extreme  beauty  and  girlishness  of  her,  says  earnestly  : 
'  you  are  looking  well  to-day,  Nan  !  So  young,  so 
fresh  !' 

'Am  I  ?'  says  Nan,  laughing.  '  Pity,  then,  that  there 
is  no  one  to  admire  me  !'  She  half  breathes  out  these 
words  with  a  large  yawn,  for  the  proper  execution  of 
which  (that  is,  the  latter)  she  raises  two  long  lovely 
arms  high  above  her  head. 

*  Well,  just  now,  to-day,  perhaps  not.  But  what  is 
this  I  hear  about  the  new  neighbour — about  Mr. 
Hume  ?  It  was  partly  the  reports  that  I  have  been 
hearing  that  have  caused  me  to  come  here  to-day. 
Is  it  true  that  he  is  here  morning,  noon,  and 
night  ?* 

For  a  moment  the  girls  hesitate  ;  it  is  indeed  quite 
true:  that  one  day's  introduction  being  accomplished 
— that  day  on  which  Mr.  Hume  brought  back  Nan  to 
Rathmore — he  has  come  there  regularly  every  day 
since,  establishing,  one  hardly  knew  how,  a  friendship 
with  the  entire  family.  As  for  the  children,  they 
adore  him ! 

VOL.  I.  '6 


82  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

*  Well,  hardly  night,'  says  Nan.  *  Providentially  we 
are  spared  that.  The  descent  of  kindly  eve  generally 
removes  him  from  our  tired  eyes.' 

*  Then  it's  true  what  I've  been  hearing?  He  is  here 
perpetually.  And,'  says  Mrs.  Manly,  leaning  forward 
and  speaking  in  an  eager,  confidential  manner,  'what 
brings  him  now,  eh  }  eh  .''' 

'  Nan,'  returns  Penelope  briefly,  but  graphically. 

'  Oh,  nonsense !'  cries  Nan,  with  a  laugh  and  a  faint 
blush.  'That's  too  absurd.  You  might  just  as  well 
say  it  was  Gladys.' 

'  Indeed  you  might  not !'  declares  Gladys  indig- 
nantly. '  Well,  I  like  that !  when  he  never  looks  at 
me  or  Pennie,  and  is  always  asking  you  to  go  out  with 
him  into  the  garden  to  look  at  the  late  roses  ;  I  don't 
believe,'  scornfully,  '  he  knows  a  thing  about  roses  ; 
and,  at  all  events,  there  are  no  roses  in  the  arbour, 
and ' 

'  My  dear  Gladys,  he  is  quite  a  lover  of  roses,'  inter- 
poses Penelope  promptly.  'And,  you  know  he  told 
you  he  took  a  first  prize  for  them  at  his  place  in 
England,'  says  Nan,  both  girls  speaking  at  once,  as  if 
to  hide  that  allusion  to  the  arbour  from  the  two  wake- 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  83 

ful  ears  of  the  aunt.     It  is  a  delicate  word-hustling 
that  drives  Gladys  into  a  corner. 

*  His  gardener  got  it,  perhaps,'  murmurs  she,  with  a 
last  attempt  at  self-assertion  ;  but  a  second  glance 
from  Penelope,  full  of  entreaty,  subdues  her  quite. 
Mrs.  Manly's  senses,  however,  being  of  the  wakeful 
order,  nothing  has  escaped  her. 

'  So  it  is  you,  Nan,'  says  she  thoughtfully. 
'A  fiction,  I  tell  you,'  returns  Nan  gaily.  'What 
really  brings  him  here  is  the  fact  that  he  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do,  and  that  he  is  bored  to  death  up 
there  all  by  himself  in  that  big  house.  Nothing  so 
difficult  to  shake  off  as  an  idle  man.  When  his  sister 
comes,  and  his  troop  of  friends,  you  will  see  how  few 
and  far  between  his  visits  here  will  be.' 

'  Men   are    like   that,'  says  Mrs.  Manly  slowly,  as 
if  not  following  her  own  words,  but  rather  some  inner 

thought.     'Still Really,  Nan,  you  should  have 

come  with  me  to-day.  There  is  never  any  knowing 
what  may  happen.  And  that  linen  gown  would  have 
done  uncommonly  well.  Nothing  like  simplicity, 
sweet  simplicity,  for  a  quite  young  girl — a  child  like 
you !' 

6—2 


84  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

To  Mrs.  Manly  anybody  under  twenty-five  is  a 
*  child.'  To  so  place  them  is  to  prove  herself  still 
young.  Anybody  under  sixteen  is  'a  baby';  she 
would,  indeed,  have  kept  the  latter  order  '  in  arms,'  if 
possible.  Anybody  above  thirty  is,  however,  of  her 
own  age. 

Thus  she  would  appeal  to  her  nephew  Boyle 
Ffrench,  who  is  thirty-one.  '  People  of  our  age,  you 
know,  my  dear  Boyle,  should  be  aware  of — So  and 
so.' 

'Simplicity  and  rags  hardly  mean  the  same  thing,' 
says  Nan,  a  little  bitterly.  '  No,  no.  If  one  can't  be 
decently  dressed,  better  stay  at  home.' 

'Rags!  Don't  give  yourself  the  habit  of  talking 
like  that/  says  her  aunt  sharply.  It  has  occurred  to 
her  that  of  late  the  girls  have  been  looking  rather 
shabby.  '  Good  heavens !  a  decent  linen  gown,  with- 
out a  hole  in  it,  to  be  called  rags.  See  here  now,  I 
really  think  you  had  better  run  upstairs  and  change 
your  mind  and  your  frock  at  the  same  instant,  and 
come  with  me  to  Cashelmore.' 

'Don't  distress  yourself  about  it,  Julia.     I   assure 
you  it  would  be  an  unwise  move.     I  don't  believe  I 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  85 

should  captivate  Mr.  Hume  in  that  old  frock,'  says 
Nan,  with  a  rather  sarcastic  little  smile.  '  I  should 
only  ruin  all  your  hopes.  Give  it  up,  Julia.  I  was 
never  meant  to  be  great.  Like  the  modest  violet, 
born  to  blush  unseen,  I  shall  probably  so  marry  that 
I  shall  sink  out  of  the  sight  of  all  my  well-to-do 
relatives.' 

There  is  something  mocking  in  her  whole  air  that 
angers  her  aunt.  Bent  on  the  settling  of  her  niece  in 
such  wise  as  shall  do  credit  to  herself,  and  raise  her 
influence  in  the  county,  which,  in  spite  of  the  money 
accruing  from  it,  had  been  lowered  by  her  marriage, 
she  feels  now  thoroughly  put  out  by  the  girl's  manner. 

Is  it  possible  that  she  can  for  a  moment  intend  to 
play  fast-and-loose  with  a  man  who  can  count  his 
thousands  more  readily  than  another  man  his  hun- 
dreds }     The  girl  must  be  mad. 

'  You  may  well  blush  for  such  a  speech  as  that,' 
says  she  wrathfuUy.  '  Seen  or  unseen,  really  it's 
disgraceful  the  way  you  girls  talk  nowadays.  Not  to 
speak  of  the  sinfulness  of  throwing  away  such  an 
opportunity  as  Providence  has  now  thrown  in  your 
path !' 


86  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Is  Mr,  Hume  an  opportunity  ?'  asks  Penelope,  who 
is  growing  angry  for  Nan's  sake. 

*Ha,  ha,  ha!'  laughs  Gladys  gaily,  totally  unim- 
pressed by  the  situation.  '  You  should  spell  it  with 
him,  Nan.     You  know !     Forfeits,  you  know.' 

Something  in  the  child's  unrestrained  merriment 
affects  them  all.  After  a  struggle  their  Irish  natures 
assert  themselves,  and  they  join  in  her  joyous 
laughter,  Julia  herself  being  the  gayest  of  them 
all. 

'  Children  like  that  never  have  an  ounce  of  sense,' 
says  she,  nodding  her  head  at  Gladys.  It  is  the  one 
little  allusion  to  the  late  disagreeableness  that  she 
allows  herself — and  yet  it  is  not  always  easy  to 
change  a  conversation — cudgelling  her  brains  to  find 
a  new  topic  that  shall  make  them  entirely  forget  the 
last,  she  all  at  once  remembers  something. 

'Girls,'  cries  she,  'do  you  know  who  I  hear  is 
dying.' 

'  Dying !'  exclaim  they  all,  leaning  forward. 

'Yes;  old  Mrs.  Canty,  up  there  at  Duffy's  farm, 
you  know.' 

*  Ah  !'  says  Nan.     It  wouid  be  cruel,  to  say  there 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  8/ 

is  disappointment  in  her  tone ;  there  is  certainly  lack 
of  interest.  Mrs.  Canty,  an  old  woman  of  ninety,  who 
has  had  a  leg  and  a  half  in  the  grave  for  the  past 
eighteen  months,  is  as  nothing  to  her,  and  quite  as 
little,  indeed,  to  her  aunt ;  but,  then,  some  change  in 
the  programme  had  to  be  made. 

'  Poor  old  thing !'  says  Penelope  kindly,  who  has 
seen  her  twice  in  her  life. 

'  Well,  she's  not  expected  to  last  the  day,'  says 
Julia,  persevering  in  her  news  as  she  sees  that  the  late 
cloud  is  hardly  yet  dispersed.  '  Ah  !  here  is  Murphy,' 
regarding  that  important  person  with  a  warlike 
glance,  as  he  happens  to  enter  the  room  with  a  note 
for  Nan,  which  she  slips  hastily  into  her  pocket. 
*  Murphy,  did  you  hear  to-day  how  Mrs.  Canty  is  ? 
Poor  old  creature !  she  has  supplied  me  with  butter 
and  eggs  for  so  many  years  that  I  feel  quite  an 
interest  in  her.' 

'  She  was  bad,  ma'am,  mortial  bad,  this  morning,' 
says  Mr.  Murphy,  who  for  his  part  does  feel  an 
interest  in  the  fading  Mrs.  Canty,  her  mother  having 
been  his  mother's  third  cousin's  niece — quite  a  close 
and  easily  got-at  connection   for  an   Irish  peasant. 


S8  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  If  ye'd  like  to  hear  tell  of  her,  Miss  Nan,  I  wouldn't 
be  wan  minit  takin'  a  skelp  up  there.' 

He  is  evidently  so  anxious  to  go,  that  Nan  has  not 
the  heart  to  tell  him  that  dinner  will  soon  be  ready, 
and  his  services  required. 

'Well,  go,  and  hurry  back,'  says  she  impressively. 
*  We  shall  be  so  unhappy  till  we  hear.' 

'Murphy  is  quite  delighted  now,'  says  Penelope, 
laughing  as  the  old  man  disappears  with  great  alacrity. 
'  He  has  the  joyous  prospect  of  a  wake  before  him.' 

Here  the  door  opens,  and  William  and  Bartle  enter 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

'  Thus  Reason  advises,  but  Reason's  a  fool, 
And  'tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so.' 

*  How  d'ye  do,'  says  Bartle,  his  handsome  face 
brightening  into  a  smile  as  he  sees  his  aunt.  To 
tell  the  truth,  she  is  not  half  so  irritating  to  the  boys 
as  she  is  to  the  girls.  Even  William,  who  is  gruff 
as  a  rule,  treats  her  with  affability.  Perhaps,  too, 
Bartle's  charming  face — so  frank,  so  expressive,  so 
like  his  dead  mother's — appeals  in  quite  a  powerful 
way  to  his  rich  and  selfish  aunt.  If  she  likes  anyone 
on  earth,  it  is  Bartle,  yet,  strange  to  say,  she  herself  is 
hardly  aware  of  the  strength  of  this  liking. 

'  What  a  swell  you  are,  Ju  !'  says  he.  This  remark, 
and  the  familiar  and  youthful  '  Ju,'  so  much  better 
than  the  odious  Julia,  though  perhaps  not  so  graceful 
as  the  Frenchified  Julie,  delights  Mrs.    Manly.      If 


90  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Bartle  had  been  a  studied  courtier  instead  oT  the 
honest  gentlemanly  lad  he  is,  he  could  hardly  have 
made  a  more  acceptable  speech  to  his  rich  aunt.  He 
would  have  been  astonished,  and  I  think  horrified, 
had  he  ever  known  that  it  was  the  raison  d'etre 
of  the  five-pound  note  she  gives  him  three  days 
later. 

^  Oh  !  I'm  only  pretty  well,'  says  she,  returning  his 
boyish  salute  quite  warmly  for  her,  '  though  it  appears 
I  don't  please  everybody' — with  a  sharp  glance  at 
Gladys,  who  sits  immovable  beneath  it.  '  Well,  and 
how  are  you  getting  on  with  your  studies  ?  Up 
again  next  month  for  your  exam.,  eh }  William,' 
catching  a  nearer  view  of  that  unsatisfactory  youth 
— '  I  really  do  wish,  William,  you  would  try  to  keep 
yourself  even  commonly  clean.  Your  coat  is  a  mass 
of  dust.  Surely  you  can  afford  yourself  a  moment  or 
two  to  brush  it.' 

'You  are  wrong;  he  can  afford  himself  nothing,' 
says  Nan,  laughing  merrily.  Their  poverty  has  come 
to  be  regarded  as  a  joke  by  all  these  happy,  hand- 
some children. 

'  Besides,  he  couldn^t  do  it.     He  daren't,  I  assure 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  91 

you,'  says  Bartle.  'One  ordinary  light  infantry 
attack  upon  that  coat  of  his  would  reduce  it  to 
powder.  One  common  assault  of  the  useful^ brush, 
and  William  would  know  it  no  more.  My  dearest 
Ju,  take  pity  on  it.' 

Here  there  is  a  little  rush  through  the  huge,  gaunt, 
grand,  dilapidated  hall  outside,  and  Nolly  and  Henjy, 
rushing  in,  seek  to  precipitate  themselves  upon  Mrs. 
Manly.  But  with  a  knowledge  of  their  little  ways 
born  of  a  long  experience  she  repulses  them.  Truly 
children  are  a  wearying  of  the  flesh,  a  worrying  of 
good  clothes. 

'  There,  now,  babies,'  cries  she,  waving  them  off 
good-humouredly.  'Paws  off!  You  may  give  me 
one  little  kiss,  just  one,  on  the  forehead,  if  you  will, 
but  no  more.' 

Nan,  who  is  standing  behind  her  aunt,  catches 
Penelope's  eye,  and  Gladys  catching  hers  and  Pene- 
lope's, all  three  girls  break  into  wild  but  secret 
mirth. 

It  would  indeed  be  a  thousand  pities  to  destroy 
that  artistic  arrangement  in  red  and  white  that 
adorns  the  fair  Julia's   cheeks.     That   little  dab   of 


92  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

red — that  effective  softening  of  veloutine — who  would 
be  so  brutal  as  to  ruin  the  effect  produced  from  such 
hours  of  labour  ?  Truly  a  good  maid  is  a  pearl  beyond 
price. 

*  Have  you  lunched  yet,  girls  ?'  asks  Mrs.  Manly, 
who,  naturally,  is  quite  dead  to  the  amusement  her 
address  to  the  children  has  created. 

'  We  haven't  dined  yet,'  corrects  Nan.     '  Why  ?' 

*  Because  I'm  famished.  I  hadn't  half  a  second  to 
get  anything  at  home  before  starting,  I  was  so 
anxious  to  pay  you  a  visit  on  my  way.' 

*  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  about  ten  minutes,'  says 
Nan,  who  knows  it  is  already  due,  and  that  Mrs. 
Moriarty  in  the  kitchen  is  fuming  over  the  delay. 
But  surely  old  Murphy  must  be  given  time  to  see  the 
last  of  his  mother's  third  cousin's,  etc.  '  You  can 
wait?' 

'  Thanks,  yes,  dear.  I  really  believe  I  had  better. 
One  gets  positively  nothing  at  Cashelmore.  It  is  the 
most  starving  place  in  the  world.  Really,  how  that 
old  woman  has  the  face  to  invite  people  to  her  house, 
keep  them  there  for  hours  on  a  biscuit  or  so,  and 
send  them  back  famishing  to  their  own  homes,  passes 


A  BORN  COQUETTE,  93 

my  comprehension.'  This  is  a  favourite  declaration 
of  Julia's.  *  After  all,  Nan,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
you  are  wise  in  staying  away.' 

'  It  isn't  yet  too  late  for  you  to  emulate  my  wisdom/ 
says  Nan,  making  her  a  saucy  little  motie.  '  Though 
it  was  hardly  the  fear  of  starvation  that  kept  me  from 
accepting  that  terrible  card.'  She  points  to  a  highly 
glazed  and  heavily  emblazoned  card,  about  the  size  of 
a  small  tray,  that  lies  on  a  table  near,  and,  indeed,  half 
covers  it. 

*Yes,  isn't  it  horrid?'  says  Mrs.  Manly,  looking 
askance  at  it. 

'  Stay  at  home,  Julia,'  says  Penelope  teasingly.  *  I 
wouldn't  go  to  such  vulgar  people  if  I  were  you.'  She 
laughs  delightedly  at  her  own  wit,  which  lies  in  the 
fact  that  in  old  Lady  Cashelmore's  withered  veins 
runs  the  bluest  blood  in  Ireland. 

'  Pish,'  says  Julia,  laughing  too.  She  is  always  quite 
good-humoured.  '  Now  I'm  gowned,  you  see,  I  may 
as  well  go  and  see  it  out.  And  besides,  as  I  told  you, 
I  am  taking  Boyle.' 

'You  didn't,'  says  Gladys;  'you  said  Boyle  was 
taking  you.' 


94  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  It's  all  the  same,'  says  Mrs.  Manly  airily.  '  Go  I 
must  in  any  case.' 

*  Poor  Julia  !'  says  Nan  softly,  shrugging  her  dainty 
shoulders. 

Mrs.  Manly,  disliking  her  tone,  turns  abruptly  to 
her. 

'  You're  better,'  says  she  sharply.  'You  needn't  go 
about  calling  yourself  ill  any  more.' 

*  Did  I  go  about  calling  myself  that  .!*' says  Nan, 
opening  her  eyes.  '  Heavens  !  what  a  worry  I  must 
have  been  to  my  friends  !  I  had  no  idea  that  delirium 
lasted  when  once  one  was  out  of  bed  and  able  to  walk. 
Why  didn't  you  lock  me  up,  Penelope  ?  Just  imagine 
my  trotting  all  over  the  place,  annoying  everybody 
about  my ' 

'  How  absurd !'  cries  Gladys,  bursting  into  a  gay 
little  laugh.  'But,  after  all,  I  think  it  is  just  as  well 
you  aren't  going  to  Cashelmore  to-day.  1  agree  with 
Julia,  it's  a  hungry   place;  I  went  there  last  month, 

and By-the-bye,'  with  a  reproachful  glance  at 

Mrs.  Manly,  who  meets  it  unmoved,  '  they  didn't 
think  me  too  young.  Well,  never  mind  !'  If  this 
touch  of  saintly  resignation  is  intended  to  soften  her 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  95 

aunt,  it  fails.  That  sturdy  matron  continues  deaf  to 
all  blandishments.  'Well,'  says  Gladys,  with  a  re- 
sounding sigh,  '  what  I  was  going  to  say  is,  that  when 
I  was  at  Cashelmcre  last  month  I  suffered  dreadfully  : 
I  hadn't  eaten  any  dinner,  and  when  I  got  there  I 
could  have  devoured  an  ox.  But  there  wasn't  one. 
Only  cups — such  cups — meant  for  eggs,  I  think,  and 
only  as  much  tea  in  them  as  would  go  into  the  corner 
of  your  eye.  And  after  that  one  strawberry — one. 
Go  there  again  !     Oh  no,  thank  you.     Not  likely.' 

'Was  there  ever  so  greedy  a  little  thing?'  cries 
Penelope,  laughing. 

*  Greedy !  I  wasn't  greedy  I'  returns  Gladys,  in- 
dignantly ;  '  I  was  only  hungry.    I'm  hungry  now,  too. 

It's '  with  a  glance  at  the  clock  ;  *  why,  Nan,  dinner 

ought  to  have  been  ready  half  an  hour  ago.' 

'  It  is  ready,'  says  Nan  ;  '  but  we  are  waiting  for 
Murphy.' 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Murphy,  opening  the  door, 
enters  in  a  state  of  considerable  excitement.  He  has 
evidently  been  running,  and  his  short  legs  are  shaking 
under  him,  from  the  unwonted  excitement,  and  his 
brown  old  face  is  aglow. 


96  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  'Tis  all  right!'  declares  he  loudly,  whilst  yet  afar 
off,  filled,  no  doubt,  with  the  benevolent  desire  to 
allay  all  fear  of  disappointment  in  his  hearers.  '  She's 
dead  sure  enough,  the  crature  ;  dead  as  Julius  Caysur 
— wid  yer  honour's  lave  P  making  a  slight  respectful 
bow  to  Nan. 

'  Oh,  I  expect  she  is  dead  without  that,  poor  soul !' 
says  Nan. 

'  What  a  way  to  announce  a  death !'  says  Mrs. 
Manly,  fixing  her  glasses  on  her  nose  and  her  eyes  on 
Murphy.  '  Has  that  man  no  sense  of  decency } 
Leave  the  room,  Murphy  !  leave  it  instantly.  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself !' 

*  The  dinner  will  be  on  the  table  in  five  minnits, 
Miss  Nan,'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  in  a  tone  of  great 
dignity,  that  is  always  reserved  for  state  occasions. 
He  declines  altogether  to  notice  Mrs.  Manly  or  her 
order. 

'  Very  well,  Murphy,'  says  Nan  sweetly ;  and, 
rising,  she  carries  Julia  upstairs  to  wash  her  hands 
and  '  do  her  hair,'  as  they  say.  Dinner  at  Rathmore 
is  an  early  meal,  followed  by  a  late  high  tea. 

'  Julia,  tell  us  about  the  dance,'  says  Nan,  as  she 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  97 

sits  on  the  old  worn-out  armchair  in  her  own  room 
watching  her  aunt  washing  her  hands.  'Will  every- 
body be  there  ?' 

'The  county  !'  says  Julia  succinctly. 

'  No  !'  cries  Nan,  starting  into  active  life.  '  It  isn't 
going  to  be  an  ordinary  dance,  then  .'''  Evidently 
Julia  is  about  to  surpass  herself.  Nan's  spirits  rise 
to  boiling-point. 

'  Oh,  how  delicious  !'  cries  she.  '  I  do  hope  it  will 
be  a  fine  night.' 

'  It  will,'  says  Julia  solemnly.  '  The  weather  is 
settled.  There  will  be  a  moon  ;  that  is  a  ^reat 
matter.  I  am  giving  it  (one  might  imagine  she 
meant  the  moon  here,  but  in  reality  it  is  only  the 
dance)  for  Boyle.  That  is,  ostensibly  ;  but  I  felt,  too, 
that  something  was  due  to  that  man  at  Hume  Castle. 
He  is  young,  and  has  come  amongst  us  for  the  first 
time.  Notice  should  be  taken  of  him.  In  fact.  Nan,' 
looking  at  her,  '  I  am  giving  it  for  you.' 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  gravity,  the  solemnity,  with 
which  this  assertion  is  made. 

*  Are  your  invitations  out  ?'  asks  Miss  Delaney, 
turning  on  her  sharply. 

VOL.  I.  7 


98  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  No,  not  yet  ;  but  to-morrow  they  will  be.' 

*  Then  put  them  in  the  fire,'  says  Nan,  '  if,  as  you 
say,  you  are  giving  this  dance  with  a  view  to  my 
marriage  with  Mr.  Hume.  I  don't  care  in  the  least 
for  him.  I  certainly  shan't  marry  him.  He  is  all 
very  well  to  talk  with,  to — to — '  ('  flirt  with  '  is  on  the 
tip  of  her  tongue,  but  happily  she  chokes  it  back)  *  be 
friends  with.     But  as  for  anything  more ' 

*  You  have  your  mind  full  of  Boyle,'  cries  her  aunt 
angrily,  facing  round  from  the  basin-stand,  whilst 
drying  her  hands  in  the  towel  with  a  vigour  born  of 
vexation  of  spirit.  '  I  do  believe  you  fancy  him. 
A  fellow  not  worth  a  thought.' 

*  Whether  he  is  or  not,  I  do  not  give  him  one,'  says 
Nan  coldly.  '  Yet  he,  too,  is  very  well  to  talk  with 
and  to  make  a  friend  of.' 

'You  will  never  make  a  friend  of  either  of  those 
two  men,  if  they  are  in  love  with  you,'  says  her  aunt 
vehemently.     '  Don't  flatter  yourself 

'  Well,  say  I  shall  make  them  enemies ;  what  does 
it  matter  T  says  Nan  with  her  usual  careless  shrug. 
'  Come,  Julia,  boiled  mutton  does  not  admit  of  dally- 
ing.' 


CHAPTER  X. 

*  She  has  beauty,  but  still  you  must  keep  your  heart  cool  ; 
She  has  wit,  but  you  mustn't  be  caught  so.' 

The  early  dinner,  to  which  Julia  did  full  justice,  has 
come  to  an  end  before  the  arrival  of  Boyle  Ffrench. 
When  he  does  arrive,  Penelope  and  Gladys  are  up- 
stairs, with  their  aunt,  seeing  her  through  her  final 
manoeuvres  before  starting  on  her  drive  to  Cashelmore, 
and  only  Nan  is  in  the  drawing-room  below  to  receive 
him. 

'  So  you're  not  going?'  says  he  gloomily,  sitting  down 
opposite  her,  and  pulling  angrily  at  his  moustache  ; 
'  If  I  had  known  that  a  day  earlier  I  shouldn't  have 
gone,  either.  But  just  at  the  last  it  was  impossible  to 
disappoint  Julie.' 

He  always  calls  her  Julie,  that  graceful,  sympathetic 
rendering  of  the  coarse  Julia,  as  Mrs.  Manly  puts  it. 

7—2 


loo  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

After  all,  it  would  be  very  foolish  to  annoy  a  woman 
who  has  it  in  her  power  to  leave  one  three  thousand 
a  year. 

'  Why  ?'  asks  Nan,  who  is  sufficiently  cruel  to  create 
a  difficulty  for  him,  and  more — sufficiently  cruel  to 
refuse  to  help  him  out  of  it.  He  is  a  handsome  man. 
So  handsome  that  all  her  people  believe  her  to  be 
secretly  attached  to  him,  yet  in  her  heart  she  cares  as 
little  for  him  as  for  all  the  other  admirers  who  have 
arisen  time  after  time  to  swell  her  court. 

*  Well,  not  impossible,  perhaps,  but  at  least  impolite/ 
says  he,  rather  uneasy  under  her  glance. 

*  Or  impolitic ;  that's  a  better  word,'  says  Nan, 
with  a  malicious  little  laugh.  Ffrench  reddens 
angrily. 

'There  is  also  another  word,'  says  he; — 'rude,  for 
example.' 

It  is  now  Nan's  turn  to  grow  angry. 

*  How  do  you  mean  T  asks  she  :  '  that  I  am  rude, 
or  that  you  would  have  been  rude  to  disappoint 
Julia  r 

'You  can  put  it  any  way  you  like,'  says  he  defi- 
antly. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  loi 

'  Ah,  you  leave  it  to  me  because  you  are  afraid  to 
decide,'  says  Nan  tauntingly.  '  Well,  what  a  coward 
you  are !' 

She  plucks  a  rose  from  a  vase  near  her,  crumples  it 
between  her  palms  into  an  odorous  ball,  and  throws 
it  lightly  into  the  air.  The  crushed  petals,  falling 
apart,  descend  in  a  shower  upon  her  dainty  head. 
She  shakes  them  off  petulantly,  whilst  casting  a  side- 
glance  at  Ffrench.     Has  she  gone  too  far  } 

'  I've  spoiled  that  rose,  at  all  events,'  says  she, 
with  a  view  to  breaking  the  silence  which  is  growing 
oppressive. 

'  Oh,  if  that  were  all  !'  returns  he.  There  is  some- 
thing in  his  voice  that  is  so  near  to  anguish  that  it 
touches  her  in  spite  of  herself 

'What  have  I  done  now.'*'  demands  she  warmly, 
standing  back  from  him,  and  staring  at  him  with  a 
little  frown. 

'  What  you  are  always  doing,'  retorts  he  fiercely ; 
'  making  me  as  miserable  as  a  man  can  well  be.' 

'Well,  why  submit  to  it?  Why  don't  you  stay 
away  .?  You  are  always  accusing  me  of  this,  that  and 
the  other  thing,  and  still  you  come.     Yes,'  silencing 


I02  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

him  by  a  slight  gesture  as  she  sees  him  about 
to  expostulate.  '  It  is  all  quite  true ;  you  love  to 
come  here  and  say  rude  things  to  me,  and  pretend 
afterwards  that  it  was  I  who  was  cruel  to  you. 
Why,  look  at  you  now !  One  would  think  by  your 
face  that  I  had  committed  a  murder  or  something. 
Really  it  is  too  much.  You  are  more  unkind  to  me 
than  anyone  I  know.' 

'  Is  that  true  ?  Good  heavens  '  what  a  thing  to  say 
to  me !  To  me,  who  you  know  would  lay  down  my 
life  for  you.' 

'  Would  you  ?'  with  a  contemptuous  uplifting  of  her 
chin.  '  I  don't  believe  you  would  even  offend  Julia 
for  me.' 

*  I  would  ;  I  won't  go  to  this  abominable  affair  to- 
day, if  that  is  what  you  mean.' 

Unfortunately,  it  is  exactly  what  she  does  mean  ; 
and  therefore  his  mention  of  it  is  a  fatal  mistake. 
She  had  been  annoyed  by  the  fact  that  he,  though  she 
cares  little  or  nothing  for  him,  should  have  been  found 
willing  to  go  to  an  entertainment  where  he  knew  she 
was  not  to  be.  It  seems  like  rank  disrespect  to  this 
born  coquette,  whom   men  have  taught  to  be   their 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  103 

tyrant,  and  who,  indeed,  have  no  one  but  themselves 
to  thank  for  the  despotism  she  practises  towards  them, 
that  anyone  should  dare  to  seek  pleasure  in  a  spot 
where  she  is  not.  That  Boyle  has  so  dared  has  been 
a  standing  grievance  with  her  since  she  heard  of  it ; 
but  not  even  to  herself  would  she  acknowledge  this, 
and  now  to  hear  him  put  it  into  words  is  more  than 
she  can  bear. 

*  How  should  I  mean  that  V  says  she  with  cold  dis- 
pleasure. '  What  reason  have  I  given  you  to  imagine 
that  your  going  here  or  there  could  ever  be  a  matter 
of  moment  to  me?  And  to  displease  Julia  by  staying 
here  instead  of  going  to  Cashelmore  would  certainly 
not  be  to  please  me.  By-the-bye,'  rising  and  making 
a  movement  towards  the  door,  '  she  seems  to  be  for- 
getting that  time  is  flying.' 

'  Don't  go  like  that,'  says  Ffrench,  getting  before 
her,  and  placing  his  back  against  the  door.  '  What 
did  I  say,  after  all  }  I  was  presumptuous  enough  per- 
haps to  fancy  that  you — you  might  wish  me  to  spend 
the  afternoon  with  you  instead  of  going  to  Cashel- 
more;  and  if  I  was,  is  there  no  excuse  for  that? 
Has  there  never  been  a  time  between    us  two  when 


I04  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

you  have  desired  my  presence  ?  Oh,  Nan  !'  with 
sudden  passion,  '  I  would  to  Heaven  that  I  could 
think  you  ever  desired  it  now.' 

*  Well,  you  evidently  did  just  now,'  says  she  un- 
easily. She  has  relinquished  all  hope  of  escaping 
by  the  door,  and  now  casts  a  lingering  glance  at  the 
window  behind  her,  with  a  view  to  gaining  the  garden 
by  it.  This  contemplated  manoeuvre  is  not  lost  upon 
Ffrench. 

'  If  you  want  to  go,  why,  you  can,*  says  he  bitterly, 
moving  away  from  the  door.  '  But  before  you  go  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  one  thing.' 

'  Ask  it,  then,'  says  Miss  Delaney  with  an  assump- 
tion of  indifference  she  is  far  from  feeling.  What  on 
earth  is  he  going  to  say  now  ? 

*  And  you  will  answer  }  Tell  me,  then,  what  it  is 
that  has  come  between  us !'  exclaims  he,  drawing 
so  close  to  her  that  his  angry  eyes  are  now  looking 
eagerly  into  hers. 

*  I  really  can't  see  that  there  is  much  between  us,' 
says  Nan  with  a  rather  nervous  laugh.  There  is  a 
double  meaning  in  her  words,  but  he  is  too  intent 
upon  the  one  thought  that  is  troubling  him  to  notice 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  105 

it.  '  There,'  laying  her  hand  upon  his  chest  and 
giving  him  a  Httle  push  backwards  ;  *  surely  there  is 
space  enough  in  this  room  for  both  of  us.' 

'  You  know  what  I  mean,'  persists  he.  *  But  you 
refuse  to  answer.  I  can,  however,  do  that  for  you. 
It  is  Hume  who  stands  between  us,  who  has 
induced  you  to ' 

*  Take  care,'  interrupts  she  lightly,  but  with  a  warn- 
ing glance.  '  Don't  go  so  far  that  you  can't  get 
back.' 

'  Why  should  I  not  speak  ?  Why  should  you  not 
hear  ?'  cries  he,  his  naturally  violent  temper  now- 
getting  rather  from  under  control.  *  Am  I  to  sit 
silent  eating  my  heart  out  whilst  you ' 

*  Now,  I  have  spoken  once,'  says  she,  interrupting 
him  again.  *  Why  will  you  go  on  with  it  "^  You  are 
doing  no  good  :  you  are  only  making  yourself  absurd, 
and  for  what  ?  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  Mr. 
Hume  is  nothing  at  all  to  me.  I  don't  know  ' — 
indignantly — '  why  I  trouble  myself  to  say  all  this  to 
you  ;  but  you  are  so  rude,  so  ill-tempered,  that  one 
is  compelled  to  say  things  that  never  should  be 
said.' 


1 06  A  BORN  COQ  UE  TTE. 

'  Still '  begins  he  gloomily,  and  then  breaks  off. 

After  a  moment,  *  Why  do  you  encourage  him,  then  ?' 
demands  he. 

'  But  I  don't,'  says  Nan,  with  charmingly  uplifted 
brows  of  amazed  dissent. 

'  Do  you  think  I  am  blind  ?'  says  he. 

'  Well,  supposing  I  do.  Why  should  I  not  ?'  says 
she  with  a  suspicion  of  amusement  in  her  eyes,  born 
perhaps  of  her  sudden  change  of  tactics.  *  What 
harm  can  it  do  him  ?' 

'  Him  !  Let  it  harm  him  !'  cries  he  fiercely.  '  The 
question  I  would  have  you  ask  yourself  is,  what  harm 
will  it  do  me  .'" 

'  Well,'  says  she,  after  a  full  minute  spent  in  care- 
ful self-communion,  if  one  is  to  judge  by  the  rapt  gaze 
she  directs  at  the  unresponsive  ceiling,  *  I've  asked  it : 
what's  the  next  thing  to  be  done  ?' 

'  If  you  are  determined  to  treat ' 

*  One  thing  I  warn  you  about — if  it's  a  riddle,  I  give 
it  up,'  says  she  gaily. 

'  Pshaw  I'  says  Ffrench,  turning  on  his  heel,  and  in 
his  turn  making  for  the  door.  He  has  reached  it, 
opened  it,  is  almost  beyond  her  wiles,  when  she  makes 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  107 

up  her  mind  that  he  is  not  to  carry  away  with  him  a 
disagreeable  memory  of  her. 

*  Boyle,'  cries  she  softly,  'stay  one  moment.  There 
is  no  such  need  for  haste,  as  Julia  isn't  to  be  married, 
and  she  has  not  made  herself  altogether  lovely  yet ; 
and  see — do  you  know  a  grand  discovery  that  I  have 
made  ?  No  !  Well,  that  you  have  no  flower  in  your 
button-hole.' 

*  Never  wear  one.  Hate  'em,'  says  Ffrench  vindic- 
tively, yet  so  far  re-enslaved  already  as  to  be  unable 
to  make  another  attempt  at  departure. 

'  You  must  in  another  moment,'  says  this  wicked 
coquette,  going  quickly  up  to  him,  with  lovely  smiling 
lips,  that  refuse  to  remember  unkind  things  said,  and 
eyes  that  are  smiling  too.  '  See  what  I  have  got  for 
you.' 

She  holds  out  to  him  a  delicate  Dijon  bud,  a  verit- 
able '  last  rose  of  summer,'  that  is  scarcely  more 
perfect  in  shape  and  hue  than  the  hand  that  holds 
it. 

'  Come,  come  here,'  commands  she  in  her  sweet 
imperious  way.     '  I  want  to  pin  it  into  your  coat.' 

*  Oh,  Nan,'  says  he,^ catching  her  hand,  and  pressing 


io8  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

it  passionately  to  his  lips.     '  If  I  only  could  believe  in 
you  !  but  I  don't,  I  don't  !' 

'  That^s  rude  again,  but  very  sensible,'  says  Miss 
Delaney  with  a  merry  little  laugh.  She  pins  in  the 
flower  slowly,  cautiously,  as  if  her  reputation  depends 
upon  the  management  of  it,  and  then  looks  straight 
up  at  him.  *  I'm  a  wretch  ;  and  that's  the  solemn 
truth,'  says  she  with  an  adorable  self-condemnatory 
shake  of  her  pretty  head. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

'  She  came — we  saw — were  conquered  :  one  and  all 
We  donned  the  fetters  of  delicious  thrall. 
We  fetched,  we  carried,  waited,  doffed,  and  did 
Just  as  our  Blanche  the  beautiful  would  bid.' 

Ffrench's  subjection  is  only  just  completed  as  Mrs. 
Manly  and  the  girls  return  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
shortly  afterwards  the  two  bound  for  Cashelmore  take 
their  departure. 

'  Well,  we  shall  have  a  dull  afternoon  of  it,'  says 
Penelope  rather  dolefully.  *  Everybody  will  be 
there,  and  therefore  we  shall  see  nobody.  Why  on 
earth  weren't  we  born  rich  }' 

*  If  we  had  been,  I  suppose  somebody  else  would 
have  had  to  take  our  place  and  be  born  poor,'  says 
Nan.  '  There  is  no  use  in  worrying  about  it.  We 
can't  go  to  Cashelmore  to-day,  and  so  shall  inevitably 


no  A  BORN  COQUETTE, 

be  thrown  upon  our  own  resources,  as  not  a  soul  will 
come  to  see  us,  so  let  us  think  of  something  to  do  to 
while  away  the  time.' 

'Did  Julia  leave  any  of  that  plum  tart?'  asks 
Gladys.  *  I  was  afraid  to  look  for  fear  she  might  have 
finished  it ;  and  if  she  had  and  saw  me  looking,  it  would 
have  been  awful  !' 

'  I  don't  know  ;   why  V 

*  Well,  you  spoke  of  whiling  away  the  time.  Eating 
that  tart,  if  she  did  leave  any,  would  be  as  good  a 
way  as  another,'  says  Gladys  innocently,  who  is  still 
young  enough  to  love  '  sweeties.' 

The  other  two  girls  laugh,  and  follow  her  to  the 
dining-room,  where  they  find  Murphy  taking  away  the 
things. 

'  Not  so  much  left  as  one  plum,'  says  Gladys,  in 
high  disgust,  pointing  to  the  empty  dish  where  that 
good  plum  tart  had  once  displayed  itself.  '  Well,  I 
call  it  shameful !  How  she  can  eat  so  much  !  Well, 
there  is  one  comfort :  she  is  pretty  certain  to  be  ill, 
and ' 

*  Gladys  !'  says  Nan,  in  a  sharp  tone  of  reproof. 
She  might  have  gone  on  to  give  her  younger  sister  a 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  in 

lecture,  but  Mr.  Murphy,  breaking  into  the  conversa- 
tion, checks  her. 

*  Fegs,  Miss  Gladys,  ye  needn't  hope  for  that,'  says 
he,  bumping  a  glass  dish  down  upon  the  sideboard 
with  rather  unnecessary  force,  doubtless  with  a  view 
to  relieving  his  feelings.  '  The  plums  isn't  grown 
that  would  overcome  her.  The  ould  lady  is  tougher 
nor  you  think.  The  Lord  might  turn  her  heart,' 
says  Mr.  Murphy,  with  heavy  scepticism,  '  but ' — 
solemnly  —  ^  I'll  tell  ye  this,  miss,  that  the  divil 
himself  wouldn't  turn  her  stomach  !' 

'  Well,  Murphy,'  says  Penelope  mildly,  when  she 
has  recovered  breath  after  the  shock  caused  by  this 
astounding  speech,  '  I'll  tell  you  something — that  you 
are  nothing  if  not  graphic  !  Gladys  !  It  is  a  pity 
to  die  before  one's  time.'  This  to  Gladys,  who  is 
choking  dangerously  with  suppressed  laughter  in  the 
window. 

She  recovers  at  this  altercation,  however,  and, 
turning,  would  perhaps  have  sought  to  vindicate 
herself  from  the  charge  of  suicide,  but  that  a  loud 
double  knock  on  the  hall  door,  resounding  through  the 
house  at  this  moment,  brings  everyone  to  a  standstill. 


112  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

*  Who  can  that  be  ?'  says  Nan,  flushing,  however, 
a  rather  conscious  crimson. 

'  It  sounds  Hke  Mr.  Hume's  knock,'  says  Penelope. 
'  But,  if  going  at  all,  he  ought  to  be  at  Cashelmore 
now.' 

*  Murphy,  go  and  see  who  it  is,'  says  Gladys,  with 
all  that  commonsense  that,  as  a  rule,  belongs  to 
her. 

They  stand  silently  in  a  row,  as  Murphy's  feet 
clipper-clapper  across  the  hall.  They  hear  the  door 
open,  and  a  voice  ring  through  it.  It  is  beyond  all 
dispute  the  voice  of  Hume. 

'  Good  gracious  !  What  does  he  mean  by  this  ?' 
says  Nan,  aghast. 

'  Business  !'  replies  Penlope  promptly.  Here  she 
gives  way  to  mirth.  *I  say,  Nan,  it's  growing  serious, 
isn't  it  "^  You  will  have  to  make  up  your  mind  soon 
as  to  whether  it  is  to  be  "yes  "  or  **  no."  ' 

'Pouf!'  says  Miss  Delaney  disdainfully.  'That 
wouldn't  take  me  long.  Not  that  he  has  the  slightest 
intention  of  giving  me  the  opportunity.  Well,  come  ; 
I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  see  him.' 

*  I  don't  see  why  we  need  go  in,'  says  Gladys.     *  He 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  113 

doesn't  come  to  see  us,  and   I   want  to  finish  that 
book ' 

*  I  certainly  shan't  entertain  him  all  by  myself,' 
says  Miss  Delaney,  seating  herself  in  the  nearest 
chair,  with  the  evident  intention  of  spending  the 
remainder  of  her  life  there,  unless  they  succumb  to 
her  wishes.  *  He  bores  me  more  than  any  of  you,  and 
I  don't  see  why  I  am  to  endure  him  unsupported. 
I  won't,  either.  Murphy,'  to  that  veteran,  who  has 
now  returned  after  showing  their  visitor  into  the 
drawing-room,  'go  and  tell  Mr.  Hume  that  you 
made  a  mistake,  and  that  we  are  all  out,  or  ill,  or 
dead.' 

*  Oh  nonsense  !'  says  Penelope,  who  is  more  nervous 
than  the  other  two.  '  If  it  comes  to  that,  of  course  we 
shall  all  go  in,  but  after  awhile,  Nan,  I  really  do  think 
you  might  carry  him  off  to  the  garden  and  give 
Gladys  and  me  a  holiday.' 

*  Well,  we'll  see,'  says  Miss  Delaney  magnanimously, 
marching  the  conquered  ones  before  her  into  Mr. 
Hume's  presence. 

*  Fancy  your  coming  to-day  !'  says  Penelope,  when 
they  have  all  shaken  hands  and  she  sees  that  Nan 

VOL.  I.  8 


114  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

has  made  up  her  mind  not  to  be  the  first  to  speak. 
*  We  quite  thought  that  you  were  at  Cashelmore.' 

*  No,  no  ;  I  never  had  the  vaguest  notion  of  going, 
once  I  heard  you  girls  were  not  to  be  there,'  says 
Hume,  who  has  seated  himself  on  a  most  uncomfort- 
able old  chair,  but  who  is  looking  as  happy  and 
pleasant  as  possible.  'There  was  nothing  to  take 
me.* 

*  I  wish  the  old  dowager  could  hear  you,^  says 
Penelope,  laughing.  '  But  how  did  you  know  we  were 
not  going  ?     Who  told  you  ?' 

*  Miss  Delaney,'  replies  he.  '  You  remember,  eh  V 
He  looks  at  Nan,  and  that  pretty  creature  all  at  once 
does  remember  an  unguarded  moment  when  she  had, 
en  passant,  as  it  were,  dropped  a  word  in  answer  to 
another  word  of  his,  that  told  him  of  her  decision  not 
to  be  present  at  the  fete  at  Cashelmore. 

*  Oh,  I  see,'  says  Penelope,  casting  a  reproachful 
glance  at  the  stricken  Nan.  But  for  her  they  would 
now  be  enjoying  a  long,  silent,  delicious  afternoon 
amongst  the  scented  haycocks.  She  is  so  far  alive  to 
the  enormity  of  which  she  has  been  guilty,  that  she 
determines  to  carry  off  Mr.  Hume,  as  soon  as  a  suitable 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  115 

opportunity  presents  itself,  to  the  garden,  thus  leaving 
the  others  free  to  follow  their  own  vagaries.  It  is  a 
sort  of  reparation. 

*  Well,  but  why  are  you  not  going,  really  ?'  asks 
she,  turning  to  Hume,  and  speaking  as  though 
she  disbelieved,  or  treated  as  frivolous,  his  former 
excuse. 

*  I  have  told  you,'  returns  he. 

'  That's  nothing,'  says  she  lightly.  *  Merely  the 
sort  of  thing  one  feels  one  ought  to  say,  but  not  worth 
a  thought.     Why  didn't  you  want  to  go  V 

•'  Why  didn't  you  ?'  says  he. 

*  You  ought  to  have  been  an  Irishman,'  retorts  Miss 
Delaney  with  a  saucy  glance.  '  A  question  as  an 
answer  to  a  question  !  You  really  should  have  had 
your  birth  in  this  distressful  country.' 

'  I   should    have    been    your   compatriot   then 

Well,  I  should  have  known  compensation,'  returns 
he.  His  glance  at  Nan  becomes  a  decidedly  pro- 
longed one  before  he  removes  it,  and  lets  it  fall  on 
the  Cashelmore  invitation  card  that  happens  to  be  at 
his  elbow.  '  And  you  had  the  courage  to  refuse  this,' 
says  he,  taking  it  up  between  his  finger  and  thumb, 

8—2 


ii6  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

as  if  a  little  afraid  of  it — as  if  under  the  impression 
that  it  may  go  off  at  any  moment  and  blow  them  all 
to  bits.  '  What  an  affair !'  says  he  ;  '  what  rascal 
painted  it,  I  wonder  ?  What  pluck  you  must  have 
to  say  no  to  such  a  mandate.  Why  didn't  you  go, 
by-the^bye  ?'  says  he. 

*  We  had  neither  clothes  nor  manners,'  answers 
Gladys  solemnly,  making  a  quotation  that,  emanating 
from  a  passing  acquaintance,  has  been  a  family  friend 
of  theirs  for  some  time.  Penelope  casts  an  indignant 
glance  at  her,  but  Nan,  lying  back  in  her  chair,  gives 
way  to  hearty  laughter. 

*  Oh,  it  is  too  much !'  cries  she,  her  lovely  mouth 
widened  so  that  all  her  pearly  teeth  show  through  it. 

*  I  hope,  Miss  Gladys,'  begins  Hume,  who  has 
caught  the  contagion  from  Nan,  and  is  laughing  too 
—'  I  hope ' 

*  You  can  call  me  Gladys,'  says  she  slowly,  giving 
the  permission  with  extreme  severity. 

*  Oh,  thank  you,'  says  Hume,  who  is  indeed  obliged 
to  her.  To  be  able  to  call  Nan's  sister  by  her 
Christian  name  without  a  prefix  is  to  bring  him 
somewhat  nearer  Nan.     He  pauses  ;  he  has  evidently 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  117 

forgotten  what  he  has  been  about  to  say,  and  finally 
starts  upon  a  novel  topic  altogether. 

'  Are  any  of  you  fond  of  sailing  ?'  asks  he. 

'  Sailing — in  a  yacht  do  you  mean  ?'  cries  Nan, 
growing  interested  all  at  once,  and  bending  towards 
him. 

'  Yes  ;  in  a  yacht.  The  fact  is,  my  sister  at  the 
last  moment  has  disappointed  me,  and  so,  as  I  don't 
feel  equal  to  the  entertaining  of  women  without  her, 
I  have  refrained  from  inviting  anyone  to  Hume  for  the 
shooting  this  year.  I  dare  say,'  smiling,  '  I  shall  get 
together  sufficient  local  talent  to  keep  down  the 
birds ;  William,  for  example !'  Here  they  all  laugh 
gaily,  willingly,  as  youth  must.  '  But  it  occurred  U 
me  that  this  is  a  nice  coast  enough  for  cruising  pur- 
poses, so  I  have  had  my  yacht  sent  round.' 

*  Where  ?  To  Glandore  i*'  asks  Penelope,  naming 
an  ideally  lovely  village  (situated  about  a  mile  or  so 
from  Rossmoyne)  with  a  harbour,  exquisitely  framed 
on  all  sides  by  high  hills,  and  foliage  drooping  to  the 
water's  edge. 

'  Yes,  Glandore.' 

'  How  lovely !'  cries  Nan,  with  such  genuine  joy, 


ii8  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

with  such  unbounded  belief  in  his  willingness  to  make 
this  yacht  of  his  a  source  of  amusement  to  her,  that 
Hume's  heart  grows  light  with  hope.  '  If  there  is  one 
thing  on  earth  I  really  do  like,  it  is  yachting.' 

A  soft  sigh  (that  is  almost  a  moan),  coming  from 
Penelope,  falls  like  a  snovvflake  upon  the  general 
summer  of  content. 

*  How  can  anyone  like  the  sea  ?'  says  she,  in  the 
forlorn  tone  that  has  always  something  in  it  of  the 
sea-sick  one. 

*  How  can  anyone  not  like  it  ?'  cries  Nan  with 
enthusiasm.     *  Gladys,  you  like  it — eh  V 

But  Gladys  is  not  here  to  answer.  Taking  advan- 
tage of  the  late  discussion,  she  has  faded  out  of  the 
room,  and  made  a  dash  for  the  beloved  book  and 
solitude. 

'Where  is  Gladys.?'  says  Penelope,  who,  however, 
had  seen  her  go.  She  rises  :  surely  her  own  opportunity 
has  now  arisen.  *  I'll  find  her,'  says  she,  with  a  kindly 
word  to  Hume,  who  devoutly  hopes  she  won't,  and  a 
sapient  nod  to  Nan,  meant  to  intimate  the  fact  that 
when  she  goes  she  won't  return.  Nan,  still  feeling 
guilty  with  regard  to  that  admission  of  hers  about  her 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  119 

determination  not  to  go  to  Cashelmore,  gives  her 
sister  an  answering  glance  that  absolves  her  from 
further  attendance. 

'Well,  I'm  glad  I  thought  of  getting  round  the 
yacht,'  says  Hume ;  '  I  had  no  idea  you  w^ere  fond  of 
sailing,  or  I'd  have  had  her  here  long  ago.' 

'  You  are  very  good,'  says  Miss  Delaney  demurely. 
She  casts  a  half-glance  at  him,  and  a  little  smile,  born 
half  of  nervousness,  half  of  genuine  amusement,  curls 
the  corners  of  her  lips. 

*  I  amuse  you  .'*'  says  Hume,  changing  his  seat  to 
one  that  brings  him  close  to  her.  His  tone  has  a 
question  in  it. 

•Oh  no!'  says  Nan,  a  little  startled,  but  in  spite 
of  herself  she  now  laughs.  'You  mustn't  think  it  was 
that.' 

'That.?     What?' 

'  That  I  was  laughing  at  you.     Only  it  seemed  so 

absurd  that  you  should After  all,'  breaking  off 

rather  confusedly,  '  I  don't  know  why  I  was  amused. 
It  was — it  could  have  been  at  nothing.' 

'  It  was  because  I  told  you  I  should  have  brought 
the  yacht  here  for  your  special  enjoyment.     But  why 


I20  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

should  that  surprise  you  ?  Surely  by  this  time  you 
must  know  that  there  is  hardly  anything  I  wouldn't 
do  for  you.'  He  says  all  this  quite  evenly,  as  though 
it  is  the  most  usual  thing  in  the  world  for  a  young 
man  to  declare  open  love  to  a  girl  after  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  week  or  so. 

'  You  do  know  it,  don't  you  V  says  he.  Her  hand  is 
lying  on  her  lap,  and  lightly,  in  the  most  natural  way 
in  the  world,  he  puts  out  his,  takes  her  captive,  and 
holds  it  softly.  He  does  not  press  it,  merely  holds  it, 
and  with  his  other  hand  strokes  it  gently. 

At  first  Nan,  as  though  too  surprised,  makes  no 
rejoinder,  but  presently  she  grows  restive. 

'  Well,  there  is  one  thing — I  don't  want  to  know,' 
says  she  decisively,  disengaging  her  hand  from  his. 
No  rebuke  falls  from  her  lips,  however,  and  she  even 
smiles  kindly  at  him  as  she  makes  her  unkind  speech. 
It  is  a  little  trick  of  hers  to  give  with  her  sting  an 
antidote.  To  hopelessly  offend  one  of  her  slaves  is 
beyond  her.  To  feel  that  she  had  turned  them  adrift, 
that  they  would  no  longer  think  of  her  with  tender- 
ness, that  she  would  cease  to  be  in  their  eyes  the  one 
good  thing  on  earth — impossible  ! 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  121 

'  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  know,'  says  Hume, 
who  has  risen  too,  and  is  regarding  her  with  that 
steady  gaze  that  has  already  become  familiar  to  her. 

'  I  shan't,'  says  she  perversely,  stepping  back  from 
him,  and  giving  him  a  defiant  little  nod.  '  Now,  now,* 
seeing  he  is  about  to  speak,  *  not  a  word  more.  Come 
into  the  garden;  it  is  cooler  out  there,  and  one  tires  of 
the  house  ;  but  remember,'  with  an  imperious  gesture, 
*  I  forbid  you  to  say  another  word  on — on  that  sub- 
ject.    You  promise?' 

'  For  to-day,  yes,'  returns  he  steadily. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

'  Let  us  drink,  for  my  song,  growing  graver  and  graver, 
To  subjects  too  solemn  insensibly  tends.' 

*  Well,  after  all,  Pen,  and  in  spite  of  that  dingy 
gown,  I  must  say  you  look  lovely,'  says  Nan — 'just 
twice  as  lovely  as  I  do.'  She  makes  this  naive 
admission  in  quite  a  delighted  tone,  standing  back 
from  the  old  cheval  glass  the  better  to  admire  her 
sister.  It  is  the  night  of  Julia's  dance,  and  the  two 
Delaney  girls,  prinked  out  in  all  their  best,  are  at  that 
stage  of  their  toilettes  when  it  only  wants  a  delicate 
pull  here  or  an  artistic  touch  there  to  complete  them. 
'Stand  back  a  bit,  Pen.  Do  you  know,'  in  a  tone 
of  heartfelt  thankfulness,  '  your  frock  doesn't  look 
half  as  bad  as  I  thought  it  would.  Here,'  lifting 
her  lovely  snowy  arms,  still  innocent  of  gloves,  and 
slipping  something  from   her  neck,   '  you  shall  wear 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  123 

this — my  pearl  necklace.  Yes,  you  must — you  shall. 
It  will  give  a  freshness  to  your  gown,  and  mine  wants 
nothing.' 

'  Oh,  Nan,  now  !  And  you  know  you  love  that 
necklace.' 

'Well,  I  can  love  it  again  to-morrow.  And  see 
here,  this  ribbon — ^just  at  your  side — there  !  You 
can't  think  how  well  it  looks  !  you  really  wanted  that. 
And  now  these  gloves ' 

She  presses  into  Penelope's  hands  a  pair  of  long 
white  Suedes  that  for  many  weeks  have  been  her 
admiration,  and  which  she  has  kept  hidden  away 
carefully  in  silver  paper  in  hiding  for  any  such  lucky 
thing  as  a  dance  proper.  It  had  indeed  been  rather 
a  pull  upon  her  slender  resources  to  buy  them  at  all. 

Penelope  almost  flings  them  back,  yet  with  a  care 
that  bespeaks  her  appreciation  of  them. 

*  You  needn't  think  I'll  take  those,'  she  says  with  a 
stern  air.  '  I  wonder  you  don't  take  off  your,  frock 
and  deck  me  out  in  that,  too.  No  ;  nothing  shall 
induce  me  to  deprive  you  of  them.' 

*  I  shall,'  says  Nan,  laughing.  *  Do  you  know  I  feel 
right  down  selfish  at  wearing  a  new  gown  when  you 


124  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

haven't  one?  Here  take  them,  Pen,  if  only  to  soothe 
my  conscience.  Now  stand  there  and  look  at  your- 
self in  the  glass.  I  say,  Gladys ' — to  her  sister,  who 
has  just  entered — '  doesn't  Pen  look  nice  ?' 

*  You  both  do — both,'  cries  Gladys,  with  effusion. 
'  Oh,  Penny,  you  are  a  regular  duck  !  And  no  one, 
unless  a  regular  prying  beast,  would  notice  the 
creases.  Besides,  after  all,  one  can't  have  a  new  gown 
for  every  occasion,  and,  let  me  see,  you  have  only 
worn  that  one  six  times.  Seven,  was  it }  It's  all  the 
same.  Nan  1  You  have  given  her  your  ribbon,  and 
your  gloves — and,  oh  !  the  necklace  !  Well,  I  must 
say  you  are  good  !  And  really,  you  know  ' — with  a 
view  perhaps  to  rewarding  Nan  for  her  generosity — 
*  you  don't  want  it :  your  gown  is  perfect,  and  alto- 
gether you  look  just  like  a  nice  happy  dream  !' 

'  Not  another  word/  cries  Nan  gaily  ;  '  you  couldn't 
beat  that  if  you  were  to  try  until  to-morrow.  I  shall 
be  fortunate  indeed  if  I  get  such  another  compliment 
to-night.' 

'  Oh  !  what  lucky  girls  you  are,  you  two !'  cries 
poor  Gladys  with  a  groan,  subsiding  into  a  chair.  '  To 
think  that  that  old  wretch  would  not  let  me  go  !  And 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  125 

I  shouldn't  have  been  asked  to  dance  or  anything.  I 
shouldn't  have  been  in  the  way  at  all.  I  only  wanted 
to  sit  in  a  corner  somewhere  and  watch  you  all. 
Oh !'  wriggling  on  her  chair,  '  I  should  like  to  hurt 
her.    I  should  like  ' — revengefully — '  to  pull  her  hair  !' 

'That  wouldn't  hurt  her/  says  Nan,  at  which  they 
all  laugh. 

'At  all  events,  I  hope  you  will  remember  every- 
thing, and  what  was  for  supper,  and  what  your  partners 
said  to  you,  and  how  everybody  was  dressed,  and  if  she 
had  that  cream  she  had  last  time,  and  the  name  of  the 
new  waltz;  and,  whatever  you  do,  don't  lose  your  card,' 
says  Gladys  all  in  one  breath.  *  I  shall  so  want  to 
know  who  you  danced  with.  Last  time  Nan  lost 
hers.' 

'  On  purpose,'  says  Penelope  mischievously.  '  She 
danced  so  often  with  Boyle  that  she  was  ashamed  to 
show  it' 

'  It  will  be  Mr.  Hume  to-night,'  says  Gladys.  '  Oh, 
Nancy  Bell,  what  a  fickle  thing  you  are !' 

*  It  is  all  one  to  me,'  says  Miss  Delaney,  with  a 
saucy  shake  of  her  charming  head.  *  Whoever  dances 
best  will   win    the  day,  so  they  had   better  look  to 


126  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

their  ways.  We  shall  be  late,  however,  if  we  stand 
chattering  here  any  longer.     Is  Bartle  ready  .-'' 

*  He  should  be  by  this  time,  but  I  have  had 
such  a  time  with  him,'  says  Gladys,  '  Father's  coat 
was  well  enough,  but  we  had  great  trouble,  William 
and  I,  bracing  up  the  trousers  ;  however,  I  don't  think 
they  will  be  noticed  much.  And  William  says  he  looks 
splendid.  Oh !  here  he  is.  Come  in,  Bartle.  I  was 
telling  them  about  the  trousers.  A  bit  long,  eh?* 
pushing  him  towards  the  two  elder  sisters,  who  have 
now  assumed  a  grave  air  of  judicial  inquiry.  '  But  if 
the  braces  hold ' — doubtfully — '  they'll  do.-* 

'  For  heaven's  sake,  Bartle,  if  you  hear  anything  give, 
make  for  the  door  or  the  nearest  window,'  says  Nan. 
'  Don't  stop  to  think,  or  to  find  out  ;  fling  yourself 
through  any  opening  that  will  take  you  out  of  sight.' 

'  I've  tied  him  up  as  tight  as  a  drum,'  says  Williain, 
who  is  plainly  lost  in  admiration  of  Bartle's  appear- 
ance. '  There  isnH  a  bit  of  fear.  Did  you  ever  see 
anything  so  good  as  the  shirt — not  a  hole  in  it,  and  it 
very  nearly  fits  him  ;  give  him  a  year  or  two  in  which 
to  swell  out,  like  father,  and  it  will  be  the  very  thing 
for  him.' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  127 

'  Swell  out  like  father  !  Go  to  the  mischief,'  says 
Bartle  indignantly.  '  And  do  you  think  a  shirt  lasts 
for  ever  ?' 

'  This  one  has — very  nearly !'  says  Gladys.  '  Bless 
me,  to  think  of  father  having  once  worn  that,  and 
evening  clothes  and  all !  It  does  sound  funny,  doesn't 
it?' 

'  Perhaps  he  danced  !'  says  Penelope,  in  an  awe- 
stricken  tone, 

'And  laughed,^  says  Nan. 

'  And    flirted !'    says    Gladys,   though    I    am 

bound  to  say  in  rather  a  frightened  tone  :  it  is,  as 
she  had  secretly  felt,  too  much. 

'  Hang  it  all !  you  don't  want  us  to  believe  that,  do 
you  ?'  says  Bartle,  with  a  frowning  brow. 

His  temper  has  got  rather  the  better  of  him,  indeed, 
so  great  is  his  trepidation  as  to  whether  he  looks 
presentable  or  otherwise.  It  is  his  first  appearance  as 
his  sister's  chaperon  at  any  large  assembly,  and  the 
due  importance  of  the  occasion  is  eating  into  him. 
The  depth  of  a  lad's  amour  propre  is  hardly  to  be 
sounded,  and  Bartle's  depth  is  deep  indeed. 

'  I  wouldnH  mind  anything  but  those  Leslie  girls,' 


128  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

says  he,  appealing  unconsciously  to  Nan.  *  They  are 
always  on  the  grin,  and  they'd  see  at  once  if  a  fellow 
was  not  up  to  the  mark.'  All  the  mauvaise  hoiite  of 
his  seventeen  years  shine  forth  here.  *  And  there's 
my  dancing/  he  says  nervously  ;  ^what  am  I  to  do 
about  that  ?  Cissy,  the  big  one,  is  sure  to  make  fun 
out  of  that.' 

^  Ask  her  to  dance,'  says  Nan,  with  decision,  '  first 
thing,  before  she  has  seen  you  dancing  with  anyone 
else,  and  take  her  round  and  round,  and  round  the 
room' — here  Nan  grows  positively  diabolical — 'with- 
out giving  her  time  to  breathe.  Don't  mind  a  knock 
or  two  (one  must  get  knocked  about  in  this  world, 
you  know),  and  it  will  do  her  all  the  good  in  the  world 
and  take  the  "  grin  "  out  of  her.' 

'  Besides,  Bartle,  you  know  very  well  that  you  can 
dance  the  polka  as  well  as  anyone,'  says  Penelope ; 
^  ask  her  for  that.' 

^  Oh,  as  for  that,'  says  Bartle,  '  I  could  get  through 
every  dance — respectably,  at  all  events — if  it  wasn't 
for  that  beastly  music.  That  puts  me  out !  Why 
people  can't  dance  without  a  confounded  tum-tum- 
tum  astonishes  me.' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  129 

'  I'm  afraid  you  will  have  to  put  up  with  it,'  says 
Nan,  who  is  laughing  gaily;  ''here,  put  your  arm 
round  my  waist  and  try  once  more.' 

'  I  can't  think  how  he  is  so  dead  to  music  when  all 
the  rest  of  us  love  it,'  says  Penelope. 

*  A  bad  sign  of  him,'  cries  Gladys,  who  is  a  great 
reader  in  spite  of  her  youth,  and  whose  darling  Shake- 
speare is.  Here  she  quotes  a  well-known  passage  from 
her  favourite  author  that  describes  Bartle  as  a  person 
of  low  character  (not  to  say  dangerous),  fit  only  for 
treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils — 

'  "The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 
And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus. 
Let  no  such  man  be  trusted." 

I'm  sure  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Bartle,'  says  she,  with  a 
mournful  shake  of  her  head. 

'  But  Bartle  isn't  a  man,  the  quotation  doesn't 
apply,'  says  Penelope,  who  is  busy  retying  his  tie. 
Her  intention  is  a  kindly  one,  yet  it  is  plain  to  all 
that  she  has  offended  him  far  more  deeply  than  has 
the  censorious  Gladys.  Better  be  a  double-dyed 
villain  than  no  man — at  least,  when  one  is  seventeen. 
Bartle  with  an  indignant  jerk  drags  the  long-suffering 

VOL.  I.  9 


I30  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

tie  out  of  her  fingers  and  prepares  once  more  to 
massacre  it  himself. 

'  I  can  do  it,'  says  Nan,  *  if  you  will  let  me  stand 
behind  you — so/     The  deed  is  done. 

'  Now,'  says  he,  '  Nan,  one  turn,  just  to  get  me  into 
it.  Gladys,  sing  a  polka.  Ah,  that's  it.  One, 
two,  three ;  one,  two,  three,'  he  counts  out  loud,  at  the 
very  top  of  his  fresh  young  voice,  as  he  revolves 
round  and  round. 

*  But,  Bartle,  you  mustn't  do  that,'  says  Penelope 
in  a  tone  of  horror.  *  Don't  count.  You  can't  in  a 
public  ball-room.     You  will  be ' 

*  Let  him  alone,'  cries  Nan,  who  is  breathless  with 
laughter.  '  Cissy  Leslie  will  be  delighted  with  him. 
And  now  come  along.' 

She  flings  a  pretty  white  shawl  round  her  as  she 
speaks,  gives  a  hasty  if  warm  kiss  to  Gladys,  and 
runs  down  the  stairs,  the  others  following. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

'  Fair  Amy  of  the  terraced  house, 

Assist  me  to  discover 
Why  you,  who  would  not  hurt  a  mouse, 
Can  torture  so  a  lover  ?' 

Mrs.  Manly  was  right  in  her  prognostication  :  there 
is  a  moon — a  moon  as  perfect  as  though  it  had  been 
bought  and  paid  for,  warranted  to  last  for  eight 
hours,  and  to  turn  on  at  any  moment. 

Its  cold  but  silvery  beams  pour  down  upon  the 
square,  gaunt,  old  house  and  grounds  of  Ballybrack, 
bathing  everything  it  touches  in  an  ethereal  beauty. 

It  is  now  long  past  midnight,  and  the  dance  is  at 
its  height.  It  has  indeed  reached  that  safe  hour  when 
Mrs.  Manly,  in  an  exquisite  gown  and  the  very  gayest 
of  spirits,  can  safely  congratulate  herself  on  the  fact  of 
its  being  an  unqualified  success.     Old  Lady  Cashel- 

9—2 


132  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

more  had  put  in  an  appearance,  a  rather  exceptional 
thing  for  her  to  do,  as  she  never  stirs  abroad,  and 
had  brought  her  grandson.  Lord  Cashelmore,  a  tall, 
slender,  grave  young  man,  with  her.  She  had 
brought  also  the  last  London  beauty,  who,  in  a 
remarkably  smart  gown,  and  with  manners  that 
would  have  disgraced  a  milkmaid,  had  flirted  and 
danced  and  supped  uproariously. 

The  old  lady,  having  been  mildly  informed  by  her 
grandson  that  her  third  slumber  had  been  accom- 
panied by  snores,  had  carried  herself  off  about  twelve 
o'clock,  leaving  Beauty  behind  her.  That  lively  damsel 
had  declined  to  stir,  feeling  herself  very  well  enter- 
tained by  the  country  gentlemen  present,  who,  very 
nearly  to  a  man,  go  down  before  her. 

Everything,  therefore,  so  far  has  gone  off  remarkably 
well.  If  the  county  had  bowed  before  Beauty's  shrine, 
the  military  had  succumbed  to  the  charms  of  her 
nieces.  Penelope  is  looking  quite  lovely,  and  Nan 
charming.  With  a  sigh  of  joyful  anticipation  Mrs. 
Manly  tells  herself  that  Mr.  Hume's  open,  and  indeed 
obstinate,  attention  to  the  latter  can  have  only  one 
meaning.     And  what  a  match  !     What  a  settlement ! 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  133 

What  a  rise  in  the  world  for  this  old  family  tottering 
on  the  very  verge  of  ruin ! 

There  is  anxiety,  however,  mingled  with  her 
triumph.  That  Boyle,  whose  temper  is  never  to  be 
depended  on,  is  now  only  seeking  an  opportunity  to 
give  way  to  an  outburst  of  that  anger  that  has  been 
consuming  him  for  hours  past  is  patent  to  her.  There 
is  something  about  the  pale,  drawn,  feverish  face  of 
the  young  man  that  renders  her  as  nervous  as  in- 
dignant. 

Good  heavens  !  what  a  thing  it  is  to  have  to 
look  after  such  a  girl  as  Nan — such  an  abominable 
coquette,  not  caring  how  she  pains  or  how  she  dis- 
tracts that  unhappy  one  who  is  bound  to  see  to  her 
welfare.  Mrs.  Manly  by  this  time  has  fully  persuaded 
herself  that  she  is  the  unhappy  one  on  this  occasion. 
She  might  not  perhaps  have  been  thus  persuaded  by 
her  conscience  (which  is  an  elastic  one)  if  Mr.  Hume, 
with  his  handsome  rent-roll,  had  not  dropped  into  her 
life,  and  shown  so  decided  a  preference  for  her  pretty 
niece. 

And  that  Boyle  should  interfere — should  elect, 
perhaps,  to  spoil  this  perfect  scheme  of  hers !     That 


134  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

there  had  been  a  quarrel  between  him  and  Nan  early 
in  the  evening,  she  had  by  chance  discovered,  and 
that  he  is  by  this  time  enraged  by  a  jealousy  that  has 
Hume  for  its  reason  is  also  known  to  her.  Hume, 
indeed,  has  made  himself  decidedly  conspicuous.  In 
vain  has  the  Beauty  turned  her  large  inviting  eyes 
upon  him.  He  has  danced  with  Nan,  and  Nan  alone. 
In  such  intervals  as  when  that  much-desired  person  is 
claimed  by  another  partner,  he  props  himself  against 
the  nearest  friendly  wall,  and  stands  there  rigid  until 
he  can  go  to  her  again. 

It  is  an  undeniable  infatuation.  He  laughs  at  it 
even  to  himself,  but  never  for  a  moment  is  he  con- 
temptuous of  it.  Certainly  it  is  amusing.  That  he 
should  have  reached  his  thirtieth  year  —  that  he 
should  have  escaped  the  machinations  of  a  hundred 
dowagers,  the  wiles  of  a  hundred  maidens  in  their 
first  and  second  seasons — to  come  down  to  this  remote 
Irish  village  and  fall  a  victim  to  a  simple  Irish  maiden  ! 
Yes !  there  is  truly  the  element  of  surprise  in  all  this, 
but  with  it  a  keen  delight. 

Whenever  this  knowledge  grows  within  him — and 
that  is  often — this  new,  sweet  knowledge  that  he  is 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  135 

irrevocably  and  for  the  first  time  in  love,  he  is  con- 
scious of  a  rapturous  thrill,  born  of  honest  joy  in  that 
his  hour  has  come.  His  fate  has  surely  overtaken 
him  at  last,  but  his  ingenuous  astonishment  at  this 
discovery  is  clouded  by  no  regret. 

A  doubt  that  Nan  loves  him  is  ever  present  with 
him ;  a  doubt  that  he  shall  eventually  marry  her — 
never  !  Upon  this  termination  of  his  courtship  he  has 
set  his  soul,  and  being  an  Englishman,  and  therefore 
a  trifle  dogged,  it  would  be  a  strong  man  who  could 
now  turn  him  from  his  purpose.  This  child,  this  girl 
whose  life  has  been  bounded  by  the  narrow,  dull, 
conventional  laws  that  distinguish  the  society  of  most 
small  country  places — who  knows  nothing  of  the  big 
world  beyond,  of  which  he  is  essentially  a  citizen — has 
made  her  own  of  him,  a  hopeless  captive  to  her  bow 
and  spear. 

Looking  at  her  now,  as  she  dances  past  him  in  the 
arms  of  a  cavalry  man  (who  is  plainly  capable  of 
holding  a  very  lively  conversation  with  his  partner, 
without  any  danger  to  life  or  limb,  whilst  waltzing 
with  a  subtilty  hardly  to  be  surpassed),  he  tells 
himself  that  surely  Nature  never  produced    a  fairer 


136  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

face  than  hers.  A  face  all  light  and  gladness,  a 
face  that  has  known  love,  and  fondest  care,  and 
tenderest  affection,  but  never  grief  or  sadness.  A 
saucy,  merry,  capricious,  mischievous  face,  and 
careless  to  a  degree,  but  surely  capable  of  a  tender- 
ness that  might  be  called  passionate,  once  her 
heart  awakes.  Who  is  to  waken  it  ?  Watching  her 
still,  as  she  now  stands  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  he  asks  himself  this  question  to  the  disquiet  of 
his  soul. 

*  I'm  sure  I  don't  wonder  at  your  staring  at  her,' 
says  Bartle,  who  has  come  to  anchor  beside  him, 
flushed  and  triumphant  after  his  last  mad  prance 
round  the  room.  '  Such  a  figure  !  Why  on  earth 
don't  she  stay  at  home,  if  she  can't  succeed  in  making 
herself  look  decenter  than  that  V 

'  Eh  ?'  says  Mr  Hume,  in  a  tone  that  would  have 
made  any  youngster  jump  except  a  Delaney. 

'  You're  like  old  Leslie,'  says  Bartle,  exploding. 
*  Your  fancy  is  for  an  armful.  Well,  you've  only  got 
to  ask  her  to  dance,  and  you'll  be  happy  for  ever.' 

'  Who  on  earth  are  you  talking  about  V  asks 
Hume,  calming  down. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  I37 

*  One  would  think  you  couldn't  see  her,'  says 
Bartle.  '  When  fellows  talk  of  "  shooting  a  haystack 
flying,"  I  always  think  of  Miss  O'Connor/ 

'  Oh  !  Miss  O'Connor,'  says  Hume,  growing  restless 
and  absent  as  he  sees  Nan  moving  away.  '  Was  she 
the  object  of  your  admiration  ?  Yes,  I  see  her  now  ; 
she  was  close  to  your  sister,  eh  ?  Well^  you  are  right : 
there  is  enough  of  her  in  all  conscience.' 

'  Enough,  and  no  waist/  says  Bartle,  with  a  grin  at 
his  own  wit,  which,  however,  is  thrown  away  upon 
Hume,  who  is  now  valiantly  fighting  his  way  towards 
that  door  through  which  he  saw  Nan  disappear. 

He  only  finds  her  in  time  to  see  Ffrench,  advancing 
towards  her  from  another  direction.  There  is  some- 
thing strained  about  the  young  man's  face,  that  is 
suggestive  of  extreme  mental  disturbance,  badly 
subdued.  Miss  Delaney,  after  a  swift  upward  glance 
that  alights  on  Ffrench's  face,  and  gives  her  warning 
of  his  approach,  and  of  his  mood  too,  bestows  upon 
her  late  partner  a  little  nod  of  dismissal,  and  settles 
herself  in  her  seat,  as  if  to  receive  Boyle's  charge  with 
becoming  dignity. 

That  young  man   marches   upon  his    fate    with   a 


138  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

courage  that  savours  of  despair,  and  of  a  good  deal  of 
temper  too. 

'  Are  you  engaged  for  this  ?'  asks  he  in  a  tone  that 
breathes  of  wrath  as  yet  unconquered. 

'  No/  returns  Nan  sweetly. 

*  May  I  have  the  pleasure ?' 

'  No ' — quite  as  sweetly,  but  with  steadiness  that 
should  have  given  him  wisdom.  But  where  is  the 
fool  that  can  equal  the  fool  in  love  ? 

*  Why  ?'  calmly,  yet  with  boiling  rage,  that  is 
trebled  because  of  the  fact  that  Hume  is  near  and  can 
hear  all  that  is  being  said.     *  Have  I  offended  you  ?' 

'  No,'  says  Nan  again,  with  the  gentlest  shake  of 
her  head. 

*  Then  why  refuse  me  ?'  demands  he,  with  ill- 
repressed  fury.  '  Surely  you  can  say  something 
besides  "  No."     How  have  I  annoyed  you  ?' 

'  I  have  not  accused  you,'  says  she,  still  gently,  but 
now  coldly. 

'  But  you  decline  to  dance  with  me.  That  is  a 
direct  insult,'  says  Ffrench,  whose  unhappy  temper 
has  now  broken  loose. 

'Mr.    Hume,'    says  Nan,    rising,  and   turning  two 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  139 

lovely  smiling  eyes  on  Hume,  '  I  am  tired.  I  have 
not  seen  the  gardens  yet,  and  they  tell  me  they  are 
charming.     Will  you  take  me  to  them  i"' 

There  is  not  a  touch  of  agitation  in  either  her  face 
or  manner.  She  has  turned  to  Hume,  and  away  from 
Ffrench,  as  though  the  latter  no  longer  existed. 

'  Certainly  !'  says  Hume,  a  little  gravely.  That  the 
girl  has  been  cruel  it  would  be  impossible  to  deny. 
He  gives  her  his  arm  silently,  and  Ffrench,  after  a 
slight  swaying  of  his  body  in  her  direction,  and  a 
gesture  as  if  about  to  speak,  turns  abruptly  on  his 
heel,  and  with  a  face  as  white  as  death  strides  away. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

'  'Tis  hard  to  feel  one's  self  a  fool !' 

Outside  there  is  a  silence  that  contrasts  most  kindly 
with  the  loud,  if  cultured,  din  within.  Here  it  is 
scarcely  loud  indeed,  being  broken  by  distance,  and 
ever  and  ever,  as  they  move  farther  from  it,  it  grows 
more  feeble.  In  the  intensity  of  the  sweet  calm  that 
covers  the  garden  they  by  degrees  lose  sense  of  it,  and 
though  the  glow  of  the  many  lamps  still  streams  out- 
wardSj  and  lays  broad  ribbons  across  their  path,  the 
human  voice  grows  still,  or  almost  so  ;  now  and  again, 
indeed,  it  comes  to  them,  not  distinctly,  but  as  it  were 
the  clear,  tinkling,  never-ceasing,  and  liquid  music  of 
well-water  dropping  between  the  chinks  of  limestone. 
By-and-by  they  get  past  even  this  quaint,  vague 
murmur,  and  find  themselves  within  a  quaint  old 
garden,  where  flowers  of  autumn  growth  hold  sway. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  141 

Tall,  stately  hollyhocks  of  every  colour,  every  hue, 
stand  upright,  as  if  in  haughty  discontent  at  being 
brought  into  such  close  proximity  with  the  flowers  of 
lowlier  growth  below.  So  fair,  so  straight  they  stand, 
that  involuntarily  Hume  and  Miss  Delaney  stop  short 
to  look  at  them. 

There  is  grass  all  round  them  in  this  old-world  spot 
into  which  they  have  wandered — a  region  of  green, 
unbroken  save  for  the  glimpses  of  god  or  goddess 
here  and  there,  whose  naked  limbs  gleam  white  in  the 
moonbeams. 

Such  beams  !  So  clear,  so  cold,  so  pure — a  very 
sigh  from  heaven.  Broadcast  they  fling  themselves 
to-night  upon  this  poor  smirched  earth,  as  though  in 
very  pity  for  it ;  as  though  with  a  longing,  heaven- 
born,  to  cleanse  it  from  its  stains.  Through  the 
arching  trees,  on  the  hollyhocks,  across  the  path  which 
Hume  and  Nan  are  treading,  fall  these  heavenly  rays, 
brightening  as  they  pass. 

'They  burnish  steel  to  silver  bright  —  a  mirror  for  an  angel 
meet  ; 

They  bridge  it  with  a  bridge  of  light — fit  pathway  for  an  angel's 
feet, 

If  angel  feet  and  angel  face  haunt  mortal  creatures'  dwelling- 
place. 


142  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'You  are  like  one  of  those  flowers/  says  Hume 
abruptly.  He  has  been  looking  at  the  hollyhocks 
abstractedly  for  some  time,  and  perhaps  this  idea  has 
entered  into  him  half  unconsciously. 

'  Oh,  I  hope  not/  says  Nan  quietly  ;  *  I  don't  like 
hollyhocks.  They  are  not  as  the  other  flowers  are — 
not  homely,  or  lovable,  or  sweet.  They  are  too  tall, 
too  majestic,  too  severe.  If  they  wore  human  garb, 
I  should  be  afraid  of  them,  I  think.' 

'  Is  not  that  another  resemblance,'  says  Hume. 
*  Do  you  never  inspire  fear  V 

*  Never.  Never  indeed.  I  defy  you  to  show  me 
the  person  who  has  ever  been  awed  by  me.' 

'  Behold  one  at  least/  says  Hume,  laying  his  hand 
upon  his  heart  with  a  pretence  at  burlesque  that  fails 
to  hide  his  real  meaning.     '  Am  I  not  afraid  of  you  ?' 

He  laughs  as  he  says  this,  and  she  laughs  too,  but 
half-heartedly — rather  with  a  tone  of  scorn,  as  though 
men  were  insects  difficult  to  be  classed. 

'  Afraid  of  me,' she  says.  '  Why,  look  at  me.  Look 
hard  !'  coming  a  little  nearer  to  him,  and  uplifting  her 
face  in  the  moonshine.  '  Now  tell  me  what  there  is 
to  be  frightened  about.' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  143 

As  I  have  said,  she  has  stepped  more  fully  into  the 
moonbeams ;  they  beat  upon  her  perfect  face,  her 
snowy  neck,  her  lissom  figure,  clad  in  its  white  gown  : 
they  give  an  added  lustre  to  her  large  luminous  eyes. 

'  A  great  deal/  replies  Hume  in  a  low  tone.  He 
pauses,  as  if  unable  to  go  on,  but  then  adds,  '  Shall  I 
tell  you  ?' 

Something  in  his  manner  perhaps  unnerves  her. 

*  Oh  no,'  cries  she  quickly.  '  If  you  think  I  have 
faults,  why — keep  them  to  yourself.  Already  you 
have  called  me  an  ogre.  That  is  sufficient  for  one 
day,  surely.' 

'  An  ogre  !    A  hollyhock  !'  corrects  he  reproachfully. 

'  Well,  it  is  all  the  same,'  says  Miss  Delaney,  most 
unreasonably  it  must  be  admitted. 

'  Nan,'  says  he  quickly,  '  sit  down  here  ;  I  want  to 
talk  to  you.' 

They  have  come  now  to  a  garden  seat  of  liberal 
dimensions.  It  has  been  placed  in  a  secluded  way 
where  the  moonbeams  no  longer  find  ahome,and,  enter- 
ing thus  into  the  cool  sweet  dark,  a  feeling  of  rest  falls 
upon  Hume.     If  she  would  but  listen  to  him  here  ! 

'  Fm    cold,'    says    Miss    Delaney   promptly,    who, 


144  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

though  a  simple  Irish  maiden,  isolated  from  the 
London  world,  and  without  much  knowledge  of  what 
should  and  should  not  be  said,  is  still  quite  alive  to 
the  fact  that  a  man  is  in  love  with  her.  '  I  think  I 
should  like  to  go  into  the  house.' 

*  Not  for  a  moment.      It   is  lovely  here  ;  still ' 

says  Hume.     'And '     He  pauses.     He  had  been 

about  to  say  plainly,  'I  love  you,'  but  all  at  once  it 
seems  to  him  that  the  first  thing  to  be  discovered  is 
whether  she  loves  Ffrench.  Doubts  of  her  dealing 
with  that  ill-tempered  young  man  now  enter  into  him. 

*  Well  ?'  says  she.  She  has  seated  herself  on  the 
garden  chair,  and  has  pulled  her  skirts  aside  so  as  to 
make  room  for  him.  '  You  want  to  say  something,  so 
say  it.' 

'  It  is  this,'  says  he,  as  if  driven  to  it:  *  I  think  you 
were  unkind  to  Ffrench  just  now — ^just  before  we 
came  out.' 

*  Was  I  ?'  says  she. 

'  That  you  can  be  unkind,  I  know,'  continues  Hume, 
who  is,  however,  hardly  inconsolable  about  the  dis- 
comfiture of  Ffrench. 

*  Who  }      I  ?'  exclaims  Nan,  with  wide-open   eyes 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  145 

of  innocent  reproach.  'Just  shows  how  much  you 
know  about  it !  You  ask  Penelope,  and  she'll  tell  you 
that  if  there  is  a  good-natured  person  on  earth  it  is ' 

'  Penelope  ?' 

'  No,  indeed — Nan.' 

'  Your  sister,'  says  Mr.  Hume  carefully,  '  is  quite 
the  loveliest  girl  in  the  world,  save  one,  but  I  am 
afraid  as  an  arbiter  in  this  case  she  would  count  as 
nobody.' 

Nan  laughs. 

*  Wait  till  I  tell  her  what  you  have  said,'  exclaims 
she,  casting  a  would-be  threatening  glance  at  him 
from  under  her  long  lashes.  '  A  nobody,  poor  Pen  ! 
to  be  called  a  nobody,  and  by ' 

'  A  nobody,  too,'  says  Hume,  with  a  slight  smile. 
*  Was  that  what  you  were  going  to  say  when  you 
made  that  eloquent  pause }  After  all,  I  was  right, 
you  see  ;  you  can  be  cruel.' 

*  But  not  to  Mr.  Ffrench,'  quickly. 
'  Oh,  beyond  question,  to  him.' 

'  But  why,  why  T  asks  she,  with  that  pretty  impa- 
tience that  characterizes  her.  '  Because  I  denied  him 
that  dance  ?' 

VOL.   I.  10 


146  •  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Why  did  you  refuse  him  ?'  asks  Hume,  suddenly 
bending  a  little  forward  to  get  a  better  glimpse  of  her 
face. 

'  Why  should  I  not  ?  Have  I  not  been  dancing 
with  him  all  my  life  ?  And  as  Julia  is  always  im- 
pressing upon  me,  it  is  bad  form  to  dance  too  often 
with  one  person.  By-the-bye,'  with  a  direct  and 
malicious  glance  at  him  that,  perhaps,  is  born  of  a 
desire  to  punish  him  for  his  pertinacity,  and  that 
suspicion  of  correction  that  lurks  in  his  tone, 
'  that  reminds  me  ;  I  have  danced  far  too  often 
with  you.  I  must  not  dance  with  you  again  to- 
night.' 

'  That  is  all  in  your  own  hands,  of  course,'  says 
Hume.  '  I  might  remind  you,  however,  that  there 
are  still  two  dances  belonging  to  me  upon  your  card, 
and  that  a  promise  is  a  sacred  thing.  But  I  have 
lived  sufficiently  long  enough  to  know  that  a  woman's 
privileges  are  not  bounded  by  earthly  laws.' 

*  You  mean  that  women  are  without  principle,'  says 
she,  '  and  destitute  of  conscience.  But  you  are  wrong 
there.  Your  vigorous  defence  of  Boyle  has  opened 
my  eyes  to  my  iniquity  towards  him.     Come,  let  us 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  147 

go  in,  that  I  may  find  him,  and  make  it  up  to  him  for 
my  unkindness,  that  I  feel  now,  because  of  your  kindly 
hint,  was  barbarous/ 

She  rises  as  she  speaks  ;  and  Hume,  of  course, 
rises  too,  full  of  a  consciousness  that  he  has  said 
rather  more  than  was  slightly  needful.  To  see  her 
make  it  up  to  Ffrench  is  about  the  last  thing  he  really 
desires.  Far  better  it  would  suit  him  to  see  the  little 
rift  this  night  has  established  widen  into  an  impassable 
gulf.  Something  in  the  girPs  face,  however,  that  is 
half  mocking,  half  resentful,  forbids  him  to  pursue  the 
matter  further. 

'  Are  you  in  earnest,'  asks  he,  '  about  those  waltzes  ? 
Do  you  really  intend  to  take  them  back  ?^ 

'  Certainly,'  with  a  provoking  nod  of  her  head  ; 
'they  will  come  in  very  usefully  just  now.  I  shall 
pass  them  on  to  that  poor  ill-treated  Boyle,  and  make 
friends  with  him  through  their  medium,  I  trust.' . 

Hume  laughs,  but  rather  curiously. 

'  So  you  are  going  to  give  my  dances  to  Ffrench,' 
says  he.  '  I  have  pleaded  his  cause  with  a  vengeance 
— to  myself,  I  must  say  !' 

'You  have  been  very  kind,  very  thoughtful,  very 

10 — 2 


148  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

considerate  —  for  dear  Boyle/  says  Miss  Delaney 
demurely.  '  I  have  hardly  thanked  you  yet  for 
showing  me  my  duty  so  clearly.' 

'  Oh,  don't  mention  it,'  says  Hume,  with  a  light 
wave  of  the  hand.  '  I'm  delighted  if  I've  been  of  any 
use  to  you,  but  on  the  whole  I  should  perhaps  be  even 
more  delighted  if  I  hadn't  been.'  He  pauses,  and  then, 
as  if  with  a  last  lingering  remnant  of  hope  :  '  So  you 
won't  dance  again  with  me  to-night  ?' 

'  Oh  no,'  sweetly.  '  Don't  you  see,  I  really  couldn't 
— having  once  taken  to  heart  your  admirable  advice, 
your  waltzes  will  be  the  very  things  to  set  me  right 
with  that  injured  Boyle.' 

'  At  that  rate  I  may  as  well  bid  you  good-bye  for 
the  present,  before  we  go  in,'  says  Hume  ruefully. 

'What  nonsense!'  says  she,  a  little  quickly  and 
with  an  evanescent  frown.  'One  would  think  there 
was  no  other  girl  in  the  room  to  dance  with  V 

'  Well — there  isn't,*  says  he. 

One  of  his  waltzes — those  waltzes  so  treacherously 
stolen  back  from  him — is  already  in  full  swing  as  they 
reach  the  ball-room.      Not    everybody,    however,  is 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  149 

taking  advantage  of  the  excellent  music  that  is  ringing 
through  the  room  from  behind  a  monstrous  bank  of 
ferns.  Captain  Ffrench,  with  gloom  written  in  huge 
letters  on  his  brow,  is  leaning  against  one  of  the  door- 
ways, glowering  at  each  passing  couple.  He  is,  indeed, 
so  far  gone  in  melancholy  that  a  tall  gawky  young 
man — one  of  the  Leslies  of  The  Point  family  who  have 
never  yet  learned  to  mind  their  ov/n  business — stepping 
up  to  him,  proceeds  to  rouse  him  from  his  gruesome 
reverie  by  a  resounding  slap  on  his  shoulder. 

'  What  ails  ye,  man,  eh  ?'  asks  this  artless  son  of 
Erin.  '  Ton  me  conscience,  'tis  like  a  tombstone  you 
are,  propped  up  against  that  wall,  with  never  a  kick  in 
you.     Why  don't  you  dance,  eh  T 

'Why  don't  you?'  says  Ffrench  savagely;  'gWQ  you 
something  to  do,  and  put  a  stop  to  your  infernal ' 

Providentially,  at  this  moment  Nan  lays  her  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

'  Shall  I  give  you  something  to  do  too  ?'  says  she, 
smiling  as  unconcernedly  as  though  she  had  not  gone 
through  a  pitched  battle  with  him  in  the  early  part  of 
the  evening.  '  Shall  we  trip  it  ?'  she  laughs  airily,  and, 
as  if  quite  aware  that  he  will  be  unable  to  resist  her, 


ISO  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

slips  her  hand  through  his  arm.  'Mr.  Hume,'  says 
she,  casting  a  glance  over  her  shoulder  at  Hume,  who 
returns  it  grimly,  'has  brought  me  back  from  the 
garden  just  in  time  to  let  me  make  you  a  present  of 
this  waltz.' 


CHAPTER  XV. 

'  This  old  velvet  coat  has  grown  queer,  I  admit, 
And  changed  is  the  colour  and  loose  is  the  fit ; 
Though  to  beauty  it  certainly  cannot  aspire, 
'Tis  a  cosy  old  coat  for  a  seat  by  the  fire.' 

*  .     *  *  *  * 

*  Nan  !  Nan  !  I  say,  Nancy  Bell !  Where  on  earth 
is  that  girl  ?  Murphy,  where's  Miss  Nan  ?  Nancy  !' 
calls  Penelope  again,  with  an  angry  upraising  of  her 
voice  on  the  last  syllable.  '  Moriarty,*  to  cook,  who 
has  just  put  in  her  nose — a  gigantic  one  with  a 
bulbous  termination  to  it,  that,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
is  suspicious — 'did  you  see  Miss  Nan  anywhere? 
Murphy,'  contemptuously,  *  never  sees  anything  that 
isn't  right  under  his  nose.' 

As  Mrs,  Moriarty  would  find  a  difficulty  in  seeing 
anything  that  is  under  her  nose,  the  shelter  afforded 


152  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

by  the  overhanging  tip  of  that  generous  organ  being 
large  enough  to  hide  anyone  from  her  eagle  eye,  it 
would  seem  that  Penelope  has  selected  two  of  the 
worst  people  in  Europe  to  help  her  in  her  search  for 
Nan. 

*  Oh,  bother  her !'  cries  she,  with  an  impatient  little 
stamp.  '  She  is  always  disappearing  like  this  just 
when  one  wants  her.     Where  can  she  be  ?' 

'Anybody  but  a  born  idiot  would  know,'  says 
William  the  Gruff,  emerging  from  the  dining-room  on 
the  left,  and  speaking  with  that  charming  freedom  of 
speech  for  which  brothers  when  addressing  their 
sisters  are  distinguished  all  the  world  over. 

*  Well,  I  don't,'  says  Penelope.  *  Consider  me  an 
idiot  born  for  the  nonce,  and  take  pity  on  my  sim- 
plicity.    Where  is  Nan  T 

'In  the  summer-house,  of  course,  with  either  Hume 
or  Boyle.  She's  always  there.  Disgusting,  I  call  it,' 
says  William,  with  high  emphasis.  'Why  can't  she 
make  up  her  mind  to  one  or  the  other  of  'em  ?' 

'  Why,  indeed,'  says  Penelope,  as  though  struck  by 
this  argument. 

'  Oh,  you  needn't  talk,'  says  William,  unappeased  by 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  153 

this  bowing  to  his  wisdom.  'YouVe  as  bad  as  her, 
every  bit.  Jack  Lesh'e,  or  Fred  Croker,  you  don't 
care  which  it  is,  so  long  as  you  have  one  of  them,  and 
then  it's  oh  !  for  the  summer-house  with  you,  too  !' 

'You're  very  young.  One  is  bound  to  pass  over 
your  rudeness,'  says  Penelope,  with  a  withering  glance. 
'  And  as  for  Nan,  I  don't  believe  she  is  there  at  all. 
No  one  saw  either  Boyle  or  Mr.  Hume  coming.' 

'  Yes,  I  did,'  says  Gladys,  who  has  come  out  of  the 
old  schoolroom.  '  See  here,  Pen  :'  she  catches  her 
sister  by  the  arm,  and  draws  her  backwards  into  the 
safe  retreat  from  which  she  has  just  emerged.  '  It  is 
Mr.  Hume,'  in  an  eloquent  tone,  low  but  full  of 
meaning.     '  As  sure  as  you're  there  he  is  now — eh  ?' 

'  No  !  Do  you  think  so  V  says  Penelope,  as  if  awe- 
stricken. 

*  I  do.  Wait  and — you'll  see !'  with  a  nod  that 
would  not  have  disgraced  a  Delphic  priestess. 

'See  what?'  asks  somebody,  and  the  two  conspi- 
rators, looking  round  sharply,  lo  !  there  is  Nan  herself 
standing  in  the  doorway,  fresh  and  bright,  and  as 
insouciant  as  if  lovers  were  an  unknown  quantity  in 
this  troublesome  world. 


154  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Gladys  runs  to  her  and  drags  her  further  into  the 
room,  and  shuts  the  door  with  careful  force. 
'  Well,  well,'  says  she. 
'  Well,  what  ?'  asks  Nan. 

*  Did  he  ?     Oh,  now,  Nan,  you  know.' 

'  Indeed  I  don't,'  growing  somewhat  indignant. 

'  Did  he  propose  ?'  says  Penelope  in  a  voice  that  is 
little  short  of  tragic. 

'What  folly !  What  rubbish !  Of  course  not,'  cries 
Nan.  '  A  man  I  have  only  known  three  weeks  or  so  ! 
I  really  do  think  you  girls  are  the  silliest  geese  in 
Christendom.' 

'  It  was  Mr.  Hume  ?'  asks  Penelope,  as  if  still  un- 
certain. 

'Yes.  He  came  down  this  morning,  because  he 
said  he  would  be  out  sailing  all  the  afternoon  with 
Fred  Croker,  and  he  asked  if  he  might  drop  in  again 
in  the  evening  with  Fred,'  says  Miss  Delaney,  taking 
a  careful  eye  to  Penelope's  approval  of  this  pro- 
ceeding, *  so  I  said  yes,  and  —  I  asked  them  to 
supper.* 

*  Supper !  Oh,  Nan,'  cry  both  the  girls  simul- 
taneously.    To  entertain  anyone  in  this  old  barrack 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  I55 

of  a  house  with  funds  so  limited  would  be  an  under- 
taking indeed  ;  but  Mr.  Hume  ! 

'  Well,  I  couldn't  get  out  of  it/  says  Nan,  who  in 
truth  looks  rather  frightened  at  her  own  temerity. 
'  He  as  good  as  asked  me  to  ask  him,  and  what  could 
I  do  ?  We  must  only  set  our  wits  to  work  and  do  the 
best  we  can.' 

*  There  are  chickens,'  says  Penelope  faintly. 

'  And  lots  of  lettuce,'  says  Gladys  stoutly,  who  in- 
deed is  hard  to  daunt. 

'  And  we  might  boil  a  ham,  now,  at  once,  so  as  to 
have  it  cold.  Yes,  we'll  manage  it,'  says  Nan,  growing 
joyous  again,  as  she  sees  the  others  fall  in  with  her 
plan.  Indeed,  Nan  is  a  mixture  of  Gladys  and 
Penelope,  and  a  right  good  mixture  too !  Though  I 
honestly  confess  that  there  are  occasions  when,  before 
being  taken  seriously,  she  ought  to  be  thoroughly  well 
shaken.  'Oh,  here's  Murphy — Murphy,'  as  that 
worthy  enters.  '  Mr.  Hume  is  going  sailing,  and  says 
he  will  be  here  to-night  for  supper,  so  you  must  help 
me  to  get  things  nice  for  him.' 

*  To  supper  is  it  ?  To  supper  here !  Glory  be !' 
says  Murphy,  stopping  short  in  his  trot  across  the 


156  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

room,  as  if  stricken  into  marble  by  this  remarkable 
intelligence.  '  And  is  it  beginnin'  to  enthertain  we  are 
agin'  at  this  hour  o'  the  day !'  Here  he  turns  smartly 
upon  Nan.  '  An'  what's  bringin'  him  i*'  demands  he, 
fixing  that  unabashed  damsel  with  a  searching  eye. 
*  Is  it  courtin'  he's  comin',  may  I  ax  ?' 

'  Well,  and  if  so,  why  not }  Could  he  do  a  better 
thing  ?'  retorts  Nan  saucily.  She  dances  up  to 
the  old  servant,  her  hands  upon  her  waist,  and  her 
charming  face  alight  with  gay  defiance.  '  Look  at 
me,  Murphy.  Pray  whither  should  he  go  a-wooing  if 
not  here  ?' 

'  That's  thrue  !  I've  nothin'  to  say  agin'  that,'  says 
Mr.  Murphy  cautiously.  '  Not  this  moment  whativer, 
though  I  think  ye  might  be  a  bit  modesther  in  the 
sayin'  of  it.  The  Delaneys  of  Rathmore  are  a  match 
for  them  English  Humes  any  day.  But  what's  de- 
sthroyin'  me  intirely  is  how  we're  to  enthertain  him 
dacently.' 

Mr.  Murphy,  who  has  so  thoroughly  identified  him- 
self with  the  Delaneys  as  to  feel  anxiety  for  their 
respectability  in  the  matter  of  entertaining,  here  grows 
melancholy. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  157 

*  Silver  we  can  knock  out  of  the  masther  under  the 
purtext  of  its  wanting  a  touch  of  whiting,'  says  he, 
bringing  down  the  forefinger  of  one  hand  upon  the 
forefinger  of  the  other,  as  if  counting  their  chances  for 
and  against  social  extinction.  '  An'  glass  we  can 
manage  good  enough — he  wouldn't  notice,  I  dessay,  if 
ye  kep'  talkin' — but  the  style's  the  thing  that  bothers 
me:  where's  the  style  at  all,  at  all!  Gone!  gone!' 
cries  Mr.  Murphy  mournfully.  'Ne'er  a  ha'penny  to 
keep  it  up.  Och,  why  did  ye  ask  him  to  supper  .? 
Wouldn't  that  contemptible  cup  o'  tay  ye're  all  so 
set  on  nowadays  have  done  well  enough  for  him  ? 
Childhren  dear !  have  ye  no  sinse !  Do  ye  niver 
think }  Why  will  ye  let  yourselves  down  before 
people!  an'  people  too' — proudly — 'not  fit  to  hould  a 
candle  to  the  Delaneys.' 

'  It  is  he  who  is  going  to  let  himself  down  before 
me — down  on  his  knees,'  cries  Nan  gaily,  who  now, 
with  the  rest  of  them,  is  beginning  to  enjoy  herself 
immensely.  '  But,  Murphy,  where's  your  spirit  ?  It 
is  here  he'll  be,  I  tell  you.'  She  makes  a  little 
dramatic  gesture  towards  that  square  of  the  carpet 
on  which  she  stands.     '  Plop  !     There  he'll  fall,'  cries 


158  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

she   merrily,  'a  victim    to    my   charms — a   corpse,  a 
slave !' 

'  Maybe  he  won't,  thin,  secure  as  ye  think  yerself, 
when  he  sees  the  rackrinted  look  of  this  ould  place,' 
says  Mr.  Murphy,  with  a  grunt  of  disapproval,  yet 
with  an  irrepressible  glance  of  almost  fatherly  pride 
at  the  charming  bit  of  conceit  before  him.  'I  wish 
ye'd  give  yer  mind  to  the  state  o'  the  house,'  says  he 
angrily.  '  D'y^  think  'tis  fit  for  sthrangers — an'  for  a 
Hume,  of  all  others — him  as  has  been  at  logger-heads 
wid  yer  people  for  years  an'  years  }  Musha,  what  ails 
ye  at  all  that  ye  can't  have  a  bit  o'  pride  about  ye  I' 

*  How  can  we  ?  it  is  all  absorbed  by  you,'  says 
Penelope,  laughing.  '  Oh,  Murphy,'  drawing  nearer 
to  him,  and  slipping  her  pretty  slender  arms  around 
his  neck.  'You  are  an  old  blood-sucker,  that's  what 
you  are !  You  have  abstracted  our  best  qualities, 
and  now  blame  us  because  we  are  barren  of  them.  I 
wonder  you  aren't  ashamed  of  yourself  I  wonder 
you  can  look  us  in  the  face.  Not  so  much  as  one  drop 
of  pride  left  among  us,  yet  you — the  robber  of  it — 
have  the  audacity  to  reproach  us  for  the  want  of  it.' 

*  Oh,   get  away  wid  ye,'   says  Mr.    Murphy,  with 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  159 

just  indignation  and  a  look  born  to  wither,  but  which 
has  failed  scandalously  to  perform  the  duty  for  which 
it  has  been  brought  into  the  world.  '  There  ye  are, 
gettin'  on  wid  yer  blarny,  whin  ye  know  the  throuble 
that  lies  before  ye.' 

'  Do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  get  the  key  of 
the  plate-chest  from  father?'  asks  Gladys  apprehen- 
sively. 

*  I  do,  miss.  I  think  that  indeed.  Fll  choose  me 
hour,  whin  he's  just  over  the  dinner,  an'  deep  in  thim 
ould  books  agin,  an'  then  I'll  get  it.  Rest  aisy  about 
that.     But  what  about  the  cookin',  eh  ?' 

'  We  must  only  depend  on  Moriarty,'  says  Nan 
despairingly.  '  What  else  can  we  do  }  Perhaps,' 
with  terrible  doubt,  '  if  we  speak  to  her  about  it 
she  will  send  up  the  chickens  a  little  less  raw  than 
usual.' 

*  She  may — slie  may  ;  though  there's  no  depindin' 
on  her.  "  The  Lord  sends  mate,  but  the  divil  sinds 
cooks," '  says  Mr.  Murphy  sententiously.  '  However  ' 
— grandly — '  ye've  got  me.' 

'  We  have  indeed!'  says  Gladys,  with  a  fervour  that 
has  something  suspicious  in  it. 


i6o  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

*  But  what's  the  good  of  one  servant  in  this  house  ?' 
says  Penelope. 

'  What,  indeed  V  agrees  Mr.  Murphy.  *  No  more 
than  a  flea  in  Westminsther  Abbey  !  Yet,  what  can 
ye  do,  me  dears?  There's  only  me  and  Moriarty 
whin  all's  tould  ;  an'  what  good  is  she  at  all,  at  all  ? 
Still,  there's  me/  says  Mr.  Murphy,  again,  with  rich 
encouragement. 

Nan  laughs. 

'  So  there  is/  says  she.  '  But  considering  all  things, 
doesn't  your  heart  fail  you,  Murphy  T 

*  Divil  a  fail  !^  says  Mr.  Murphy  valiantly.  '  The 
Delaneys  is  a  big  sight  better  than  the  Humes  any 
day  !' 

With  this  he  leaves  the  room,  and,  crossing  the 
gaunt  old  hall,  enters  a  small  apartment  (half-way 
down  a  dim  corridor)  that  belongs  exclusively  to 
himself.  Here  he  seats  himself  upon  a  table,  and, 
taking  his  chin  into  his  hand,  scrapes  it  vigorously. 

'  Faix,  it  looks  like  it/  says  he,  at  last,  addressing 
himself.  He  purses  up  his  lips,  and  the  light  of 
triumph  brightens  his  small  gray  eyes.  '  If  he  manes 
it,  'twill  be  the  makin'  of  us.     But  what  does  he  see 


k 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  i6i 

in  her  at  all,  a  slip  of  a  girl  like  that  ?  Anyhow,  men's 
fools!  Hume!  i^io,ooo  a  year  if  a  ha'penny.  Arrah, 
more  power  to  you,  Miss  Nan  !'  Here  the  old  fellow 
plants  his  hands  upon  his  sides,  and  grins  softly,  and 
executes  a  step  or  two,  lightly  enough,  too,  in  spite  of 
his  age.  But  presently,  his  eyes  falling  on  a  garment 
that  hangs  from  a  peg  on  the  back  of  the  door,  he 
grows  serious  again. 

*  It  won't  go  much  further,'  says  he,  fixing  this 
article  with  a  rueful  eye.  As  if  reluctant  to  make 
sure  of  its  delinquencies,  he  advances  towards  it 
slowly,  and,  taking  it  from  the  peg,  lays  it  upon  a 
chair.  Truly,  it  is  a  coat  that  has  done  much  service  ; 
a  coat  so  tired,  so  worn  out  in  discharge  of  its  duty, 
that  it  may  now  with  all  honesty  lay  claim  to  the 
quiet  of  that  sepulchre  which  awaits  all  well-behaved 
old  garments. 

'  ^Tis  green,'  says  Murphy,  regarding  it  with  deep 
regret ;  '  dom  green  !  It  can't  go  much  further,  an' 
who's  to  replace  it  ?  Not  the  masther  for  one  !  Divil 
a  penny  to  be  got  out  o'  him  barrin'  the  wages,  an' 
that  wid  a  power  of  throuble.  But  there's  Miss  Nan 
to  be  considered,  an'  the  misthress's  mimory  too.    God 

VOL.  I.  II 


i62  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

rest  her  sowl !'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  with  a  pathetic 
solemnity,  and  a  loving  recollection  that  must  have 
touched  the  heart  of  anyone  that  heard  him. 

He  strokes  the  old  coat  with  a  tender  hand,  and 
divesting  himself  of  the  nondescript  garment  that 
already  covers  him,  gets  himself  by  easy  and  careful 
degrees  into  the  ancient  friend  that  for  so  many  years 
has  been  his  Sunday's  best. 

*  'Tis  burstin'  in  it  I  am,'  says  he  mournfully,  after 
a  brief  survey  of  his  figure.  '  Faix,  if  I  were  to  give 
way  to  one  dacent  cough  'twould  be  all  over  wid  me ! 
^Tis  a  new  one  I'll  have  to  be  gettin',  I'm  thinkin', 
an'  if  I  do  'twill  be  the  death  of  me.  Squeezin'  me 
here,  an'  pinchin'  me  there,  an'  afraid  o'  me  sowl  to 
sit  down  lest  I  put  a  crease  in  it.  Oh  !  musha !  why 
can't  the  coat  that  suits  one  last  for  iver  !'  A  profound 
sigh.  'Well,  ril  tell  ye  the  raisin  o'  that,  Paddy 
Murphy  me  son  :  'tis  because  you  yerself  can't  last 
for  iver.  Ould  age  will  be  the  ondoin'  o'  you  an'  yer 
coat !' 

Deep  melancholy  seems  to  follow  on  the  deliver- 
ance of  this  sorrowful  truth.  Mr.  Murphy  gives  way 
to  dejection  ;  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  he 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  163 

lets  his  head  drop  forward,  shaking  it  up  and  down, 
and  up  and  down  like  a  solemn  old  mandarin.  Mechan- 
ically, as  he  does  this,  he  strokes  with  one  hand  the 
sleeve  of  the  old  coat,  and  presently,  as  if  uncon- 
sciously, turns  up  the  frayed  and  aged  cuffs  of  it. 
Suddenly,  as  he  gazes  on  this  dilapidation,  his  mood 
changes,  and  something,  that  is  almost  triumph,  alters 
the  expression  of  his  face  from  dismal  thought  to  self- 
congratulation.  It  is  the  look  of  one  who  has,  in  spite 
of  all  things,  got  the  best  of  the  bargain. 

'  Well,  sorra  a  penny  does  this  coat  owe  me,'  says 
he.  '  Twinty  year  if  it's  a  day  since  I  first  got  it,  an' 
niver  so  much  as  a  button  gone  asthray  wid  it.  Arrah, 
'twas  a  fine  coat  entirely,  though  I  don't  deny  but  I've 
had  great  throuble  wid  the  brushin'  of  it  of  late  years.' 

Here  he  takes  up  a  brush,  as  if  instinctively,  and 
begins  to  work  away  at  the  right  sleeve. 

'  A  good  coat  as  iver  was,'  says  he  softly,  keeping 
time,  as  it  were,  to  the  action  of  his  hand.  '  An' 
worthy  of  her  who  gave  it  to  me.  The  poor  little 
misthress  !  May  the  heavens  be  her  bed,  and  may  it 
be  a  soft  one,  too,  for  her,  the  crathure ;  for  she'd  a 
hard  life  here.' 

II — 2 


i64  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

A  tear  falls  upon  the  sleeve  he  is  still  laboriously 
brushing,  but  he  knocks  it  aside  with  his  little  finger. 

'  At  all  events/  says  he  sternly,  as  if  with  a  deter- 
mination to  cast  aside  sentiment  and  bring  himself 
back  perforce  to  common-sense,  *  I'm  bound  to  make 
meself  look  dacent  if  Hume  of  the  Castle  is  comin' 
here  with  an  eye  to  Miss  Nan  !  'Twould  niver  do  for 
him  to  take  too  low  an  opinion  of  us  ;  an'  a  man- 
servant, nately  attired,  is  the  making  of  a  place. 
Paddy,  me  boy,  we're  off  to  the  tailor  to-morrow, 
plaze  God.' 

He  is  just  making  a  violent  effort  to  get  at  his  back 
with  the  brush,  when  William  bursts  into  the  room. 

*  What  are  you  doing,  turning  yourself  into  a  cork- 
screw? Here,  give  me  the  brush,'  says  he,  dragging 
it,  indeed,  out  of  Murphy's  hand  and  beginning  to 
belabour  his  back  with  it  in  fine  style. 

'Gintly,  darlint,  gintly  !  'Tis  very  tindher  intirely 
it  has  grown,'  says  that  old  gentleman  nervously. 
Arrah,  take  care,  Masther  William  dear,  or  faix 
you'll  go  bang  through  it !  An'  I  may  as  well  keep 
it  whole  for  the  night  at  laste,  as  Miss  Nan  has  asked 
them  gintlemen  to  supper.' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  165 

'  That's  what  I  came  about/  says  William.  '  My 
hive  is  as  heavy  as  lead.  Do  you  think,  Murphy,  that 
honey  vi^ould  look  nice  on  the  table  V 

*  Beautiful,  faix,  an'  no  mistake  about  it,'  says  Mr. 
Murphy.  '  'Tis  a  grand  head  ye  have  on  yer 
shouldhers.  You  know  London  gents  niver  gets  a 
thing  fit  to  ate  in  the  counthry  line.  He'll  be 
delighted  wid  the  fresh  honey.  Though,  indeed,  me 
dear  ' — anxiously — '  ye  musn't  let  him  make  too  free 
wid  it,  for  its  very  thryin' ;  me  sisther's  daughther's 
child  was  near  kilt  by  it.  There,  now,  Masther 
William  asthore,  give  over  the  brush.  'Tis  sore  in  me 
back  I  am  from  ye  ;  an',  in  truth,  me  dear,  the  owld 
coat's  on  its  last  legs.  'Tis  gettin*  another  I'll  be,  an' 
at  once,  too,  because  o'  Miss  Nan.' 

'  A  new  coat.  By  George !'  says  William,  aghast 
at  this  startling  news.  'Are  you  really,  Murphy.? 
But  why  }     What  has  Miss  Nan  got  to  do  with  it  ?' 

'  A  power,'  says  Mr.  Murphy  sententiously.  'Mark 
my  words,  Masther  William,  if  Hume  of  the  Castle 
isn't  comin  here  to  make  his  own  of  her.  An'  if  he  is, 
shouldn't  we  all  thry  to  put  our  best  leg  foremost  ? 
Troth,  yes,  say  I  ;  an'  that's  why  I'm  goin'  to  buy  a 


i66  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

new  coat,  to  let  him  see  that  it's  no  beggars  the 
Delaneys  are,  for  all  he  may  have  been  tould.  There, 
run  away  wid  ye  now,  me  dear.  Fve  got  the  world 
an'  all  to  do,  an'  to  tackle  your  father  about  the  silver 
first  thing.  Fegs,  I  hope  he  won't  get  wind  o'  Miss 
Nan's  party  to-night,  or  there'll  be  the  divil  an^  all  to 
pay.' 

William,  thus  evicted,  makes  straight  for  the  school- 
room, where  his  sisters  are  still  discussing  the  coming 
supper. 

*  I  say,  I'll  tell  you  something,'  cries  he.  '  Such  a 
thing !  youM  never  guess.  What  do  you  think  ? 
Murphy  is  going  to  buy  a  new  coat.  A  new  one — a 
brand  new  one.  And  all  because  he  thinks  Mr. 
Hume  is  going  to  marry  Nan.' 

Miss  Delaney  gives  way  to  a  rather  angry  laugh. 

'You  seem  all  determined  to  marry  me  to  him,' 
says  she,  in  a  vexed  tone. 

'  There  is  not  one  of  us  so  determined  as  Mr.  Hume 
himself,'  says  Penelope. 

*  Well,  he  shall  be  determined  in  vain,'  declares 
Nan  angrily.  '  I  shall  certainly  not  marry  him  ;  no, 
never !     Good  heavens !  the  idea  is  absurd.     A  man 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  167 

I  met  a  few  weeks  ago  for  the  first  time  ;  a  man  I 
care  nothing  about — whom,  indeed,  it  would  take  but 
little  to  make  me  detest  :  a  very  little  more  of  this 
persecution,  for  example.' 

'If  you  feel  like  that  towards  him,  I  don't  think 
you  ought  to  encourage  him,'  says  Penelope  gently, 
but  in  a  rather  displeased  tone. 

'  Encourage  !  How  do  I  encourage  him  ?  Now 
Gladys,  what  do  you  think  ?' 

'I  think  you  are  frightfully  kind  to  him  if  you 
don't  mean  to  accept  him,'  says  Gladys,  with  all  a 
girl's  exaggerated  manner,  and  with  a  total  disregard 
of  the  fact  that  Nan  has  thrown  herself  upon  her 
mercy. 

'  Well,'  says  Miss  Delaney  indignantly,  '  it  just 
comes  to  this,  that  one  daren't  be  civil  to  a  person 
nowadays,  unless  one  wants  the  whole  world  to  be 
down  upon  one.     What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?' 

*  Accept  him,'  says  Gladys  promptly. 

'  Oh,  no.  Not  unless  you  really  like  him.  And — 
and  besides,  there  is  poor  Boyle,'  says  Penelope 
nervously. 

'  Boyle  !       Oh,    nonsense !       Selfish    fellow,^    says 


i68  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Gladys.  *  Mr.  Hume  is  nicer  than  he  is,  though, 
indeed,  I  don't  think  much  of  either  of  them,'  with  a 
superb  shrug  of  her  thin  and  rather  impertinent 
shoulders. 

'  Well,  neither  do  I,'  says  Nan  gaily  ;  she  has  quite 
recovered  her  temper,  and  is  now  laughing.  '  I  don't 
believe  I  shall  ever  care  for  anybody  ;  but  in  the 
meantime,  whilst  I  am  learning  the  truth  about  that, 
both  Mr.  Hume  and  Boyle  are  good  enough  to  pass 
away  my  time  with.' 

'  Don't  go  too  far  with  Mr.  Hume,  and  take  my 
advice,'  says  Penelope,  with  an  earnest  look  at  her. 

^  Is  he  marked  dangerous  t  Have  you  been  study- 
ing him  ?'  asks  Nan  lightly. 

^  So  far  as  to  learn  that  his  will  would  be  a  difficult 
one  to  combat.  I  shouldn't  care  to  cross  swords 
with  him.' 

'  Nor  I  with  anybody,'  says  Nan.  Why  need 
people  go  to  extremes  t  Why  not  enjoy  the  summer 
while  it  lasts,  instead  of  perpetually  looking  forward 
to  a  gloomy  winter  t  '  I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  at 
me  like  that,  Penelope.  One  would  imagine  that 
you  were  yourself  immaculate  ;    and  yet  you    know 


A  BORN  COQUETTE,  169 

you  made  Freddy  Croker's  life  a  burden  to  him  five 
days  out  of  seven.' 

Penelope  flushes  scarlet. 

'  Oh  no/  says  she,  but  rather  weakly. 

*  Yes,  yes  ;  that^s  quite  true/  declares  Gladys. 
'And  it  is  my  belief  you  care  as  little  for  him  as 
Nan  does  for  Boyle  or  Mr.  Hume.  But  never  mind 
all  that.  Let's  think  about  to-night.  If  they  can't 
get  home  to  dinner,  those  two  men  will  be  as  hungry 
as  hunters ;  and  that  isn't  all,  either.  It  will  be  our 
first  entertainment,  and  it  would  be  horrible  if  they 
went  home  feeling  dull.  Now,  how  are  we  going  to 
amuse  them  i*' 

'  You  can  leave  that  to  me,'  says  William  grandly, 
in  the  proud  tone  of  one  who  has  smoothed  away  a 
social  dilemma. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

'  Irish  eyes  !  Irish  eyes  ! 
Eyes  that  most  of  all  can  move  me.' 

'  You  have  got  home  very  early,  haven't  you  ?'  says 
Nan,  turning  a  little  round  on  the  garden  bench  on 
which  they  are  both  sitting,  to  get  a  better  view  of  his 
face. 

'  Yes,  perhaps  so  ;  it  didn't  seem  early  to  me,'  says 
Hume^  rather  absently.  The  truth  lies  with  Nan, 
however.  He  had  assured  her  in  the  morning  that  he 
and  Croker  could  not  possibly  get  back  from  their 
sail  before  nine  o'clock,  and  now  it  is  barely  eight. 
They  had  dropped  anchor,  indeed,  astonishingly 
early,  and  had  plainly  lost  no  time  in  presenting 
themselves  at  Rathmore. 

Mr.  Croker  is  at  present  in  the  vegetable  garden 
with  Penelope  ;  Hume  in  the  flower  garden  with  Nan. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  171 

*  You  must  be  starving/  says  Nan. 

'Oh  no!  We  had  something  with  us,  you  know, 
and ' 

He  breaks  off,  absently  still,  and  begins  to  trace 
cabalistic  letters  upon  the  gravel  at  his  feet  with  his 
stick. 

'  Supper  will  be  ready  in  about  an  hour,'  says  Miss 
Delaney,  speaking  in  a  rather  louder  tone,  as  if  to 
compel  his  attention.  She  is,  in  truth,  a  little  wrath- 
ful because  of  this  curious  abstraction  of  his.  '  Do 
you  think  you  can  last  until  then  ?' 

Evidently  he  is  hungry.  It  must  be  some  strong 
feeling  indeed  that  can  make  him  thus  indifferent  to 
her  presence. 

'  Then  ?  Nine  }  A  capital  hour  for  supper,^  says 
Hume  vaguely,  whose  dinner-hour  it  has  often 
been. 

'  I  didn't  ask  you  that,'  says  she,  rather  affronted. 
'  And  it  isn't  a  capital  hour,  either.  I  know  as  well 
as  you  do  that  supper  as  a  rule  comes  off  at  midnight. 
But  when  you  have  had  no  dinner 

'  Nan,'  says  he  abruptly,  apropos  of  nothing,  '  are 
you  engaged  V 


172  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

He  has  ceased  from  making  those  idle  figures  on 
the  gravel  and  now  leans  forward,  staring  straight 
into  her  face. 

'  Engaged  ?'  repeats  Nan.  She  is  too  astonished  to 
blush,  or  betray  any  emotion,  save  the  crudest  amaze- 
ment— so  astonished  that  she  forgets  even  to  be  angry. 
'  You  mean ' 

*  Engaged  to  be  married,'  says  Hume  con- 
cisely. 

'  No  ;  of  course  not.  What  a  question  !'  cries  she 
a  little  quickly,  a  little  sharply,  as  if  shocked. 

*  In  love  r 

This  time  she  forgets  neither  to  blush  nor  to  be 
angry.  With  a  swift  glance  at  him  she  springs  to  her 
feet. 

*  Why  do  you  speak  to  me  like  this  ?'  asks  she,  her 
cheeks  dyed  an  indignant  crimson.  *  Do  you  know 
what  you  are  saying  ?' 

'  Perfectly,'  says  Mr.  Hume  slowly. 

'  Then  you  must  know  that  you  are  extremely  rude,' 
says  Nan,  with  angry  promptitude. 

'  I  have  annoyed  you,'  says  Hume,  as  if  rather  sur- 
prised at  this  fact.     He,  too,  has  risen,  and  they  both 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  173 

stand  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  Nan  flushed  and 
vexed,  he  thoughtful. 

'  Oh,  more  than  that/  cries  she. 

'  Well,  I  can't  see  why,'  says  he.  *  I  can't  see  that 
there  is  so  much  in  that  question,  after  all — to  you. 
If  you  say  "  Yes,"  which  of  course  you  won't,  why, 
there  will  be  an  end  of  everything,  and  the  saying  of 
it  will  cost  you  very  little.  If  you  can  say  "  No," 
(which  I  devoutly  hope  you  may),  it  will  cost  you 
even  less.'  He  pauses  and  regards  her  keenly.  '  Well, 
are  you  ?'  says  he. 

'  Certainly  I  shall  not  answer  you,'  with  a  determina- 
tion not  to  be  shaken.  She  presses  her  lips  together, 
and  stands  back  from  him  as  if  distinctly  offended. 

'  Which  means,  I  suppose,'  says  he,  '  that  you 
are  V 

'  No,  no  ;'  vehemently,  driven  to  confession  in  spite 
of  herself  by  this  unpleasant  accusation.  '  Why 
should  it  ?  In  love  !  Why,'  with  withering  scorn 
that  does  not  pass  him  over,  '  who  is  there  down  here 
to  fall  in  love  with  ?' 

'  Ffrench,'  says  he,  undaunted. 

'  Really,  you  are  too  absurd  !'  says  Nan,  who  has 


174  ^  BORN  COQUETTE. 

nevertheless  grown  very  red.  '  Oh,  of  course  I  know 
what  you  mean  :  you  think  that  because  I  am  some- 
times civil  to  him,  that  I  must  needs  be But  all 

that  only  proves  how  stupid  you  are.  It  is  nonsense, 
I  tell  you.  I  assure  you,'  eagerly,  '  I  am  as  much  in 
love  with  Boyle  as  he  is  with  me.^ 

'  Oh,  I  hope  not/  says  Hume,  with  a  curious  smile. 
'  If  that  be  so,  I  am  the  unhappiest  man  alive.' 

'You  purposely  misunderstand  me,'  says  she,  tapping 
her  foot  impatiently  upon  the  ground.  '  I  know  you 
think  Boyle  likes  me.  But  it  is  not  so.  We  are 
friends,  that  is  all.  He  doesn't  care  for  me  in  that 
way,  and  I  don't  care  for  him.' 

'  I  hope  the  end  of  that  sentence  is  not  so  false  as 
its  beginning,'  says  Hume  steadily,  his  eyes  on  her 
downcast  face. 

'  It  is  as  true,'  defiantly. 

'  Are  you  sure  T  says  he.  '  Let  me  tell  you  some- 
thing, then.  If  Ffrench  does  not  love  you,  why — 
neither  do  I.' 

Dead  silence  follows  on  this  speech.  After  a  slight 
hesitation  Nan  turns  abruptly,  and  walks  away.  He 
follows  her,  however. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  175 

'  You  are  angry  ?  Why  ?'  asks  he.  '  May  I  not 
love  you  ?  You  suffer  him :  am  I  not  as  good  a 
man  ?' 

At  this  he  laughs  a  little,  either  to  induce  her  to 
condone  the  seeming  conceit  of  his  words,  to  forgive 
them,  or  else  to  conceal  a  touch  of  nervousness. 

*Why  will  you  speak  to  me  like  this?'  says  she, 
stopping  short,  and  letting  him  see  a  charming  face 
now  pale  and  distressed.  ^  You  have  only  known  me 
a  week  or  so,  and ' 

'  I  have  known  you  always,  T  think,'  interrupts  he. 
*  I  cannot  now  imagine  a  time  when  I  did  not  know 
you.     You  have,'  with  a  smile,  'killed  time  for  me.' 

*  No  wonder  you  are  so  — grateful  to  me,^  returns 
she  with  an  answering  smile,  and  a  swift  coquettish 
glance  as  impossible  for  the  girl  to  restrain  as  it  would 
be  for  a  more  sedate  sister  to  produce  it. 

'You  don't  dislike  me  T  says  Hume,  in  a  low  tone, 
taking  courage  from  the  lovely  glance. 

'  N-o.     Oh  no  !' 

'  You  like  me,  perhaps,'  brave  still  in  the  presence 
of  that  last  disheartening  rejoinder. 

'  Ye-es,'  says  she  dubiously. 


176  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Don't  you,  then  ?  Why  can't  you  ?'  asks  he. 
*  People  here  and  there  have  liked  me.' 

'  I  dare  say,'  returns  she,  as  if,  however,  a  little 
uncertain  about  the  probability  of  the  matter. 

Hume  with  a  sudden  unexpected  touch  of  passion 
stops  short,  and  catches  her  hands  in  his. 

*  At  all  events,  you  don't  dislike  me.  Remember, 
you  said  that/  exclaims  he  almost  fiercely.  '  And 
more — you  have  assured  me  that  you  love  no  one.' 

*  No  one,'  says  Nan,  rather  faintly,  as  if  a  little 
frightened  by  his  vehemence. 

'  Well,'  says  he,  recovering  his  composure  instantly 
as  he  sees  her  growing  nervous,  'as  you  are  a  woman, 
and  therefore  to  be  won,  and  as  you  will  surely 
marry  one  day,  why  not  marry  me  ?' 

Nan  drags  her  hands  out  of  his  with  considerable 
haste. 

'  You  know  I  told  you  not  to  speak  to  me  like  this,' 
says  she,  with  some  agitation.  '  You  know  I  warned 
you ;  it  is  impossible — quite,  quite  impossible  ;  and 
I  could  never  think  of  you  in  that  way — never,  never  !' 

*  Not  in  time  i" 
'  Never.' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  177 

'  I  shan't  give  up  hope,  for  all  that,'  says  he 
doggedly,  yet  with  a  sharp  sigh.  '  Not  so  long 
as  you  can  tell  me  with  your  own  lips  that  you  love 
no  one  else.'  He  regards  her  again  intently  as  he 
says  this,  seeming  to  dwell  upon  the  subject  with  a 
persistency  that  speaks  of  distrust.  '  If  all  the  world 
is  indifferent  to  you,  as ' — with  a  searching  glance 
at  her — '  you  have  said  it  is,  give  me  a  chance.' 

'What  is  a  chance  ?'  asks  she  mischievously.  She 
has  now  flung  from  her  that  first  shy  horror  that  had 
overcome  her,  when  he  had  deliberately  put  aside  the 
veil  (a  thin  one,  lately)  that  had  stood  between  his 
evident  admiration  for  her,  and  that  deeper,  stronger 
feeling  that  has  become  part  of  his  life.  She  is  now 
once  again  radiant,  and,  prompted  by  that  irrepres- 
sible coquetry  that  forms  so  strong  a  portion  of  her 
nature,  strives  to  strengthen  the  chains  that  already 
are  too  strong.  Delight  in  this,  her  latest  conquest, 
shows  itself  in  the  brilliant  smile  she  now  directs  full 
upon  Hume. 

'  In  this  case  it  would  mean  a  reprieve — an  escape 
from  death,^  says  he. 

*  One  would  think  you  were  a  criminal,'  says  Nan, 

VOL.   I.  12 


178  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

laughing,  yet  with  an  admirable  pout.  '  Is  it  in  such 
a  character  as  that  that  you  come  a-wooing  ?' 

This  is  a  distinct  encouragement. 

'  I  may  come,  then,'  cries  he,  seizing  his  oppor- 
tunity and  her  hand  at  the  same  moment.  '  Well,  I 
will  not  protest  too  much,  but,'  earnestly,  '  I  entreat 
you  to  let  the  possibility  of  me  as  a  suitor  sink  into 
your  mind.  Just  now  and  then  so  to  think  of  me  may 
work  a  charm.  And  it  is  all  I  ask  at  present.  As  I 
have  already  said,  you  are  bound  to  marry  someone  ; 
why  should  it  not  be  me  T 

'  Why  not,  indeed  !'  argues  Miss  Delaney  with 
shameless  frivolity.  She  throws  up  her  faultless 
head  as  she  says  this,  and  turns  upon  him  the  full 
light  of  two  big  mocking  eyes,  throwing  in  besides,  as 
it  were,  such  an  adorable  smile  that  Hume  makes  a 
step  towards  her.  It  is  a  step  so  hasty,  so  charged 
with  a  fell  purpose,  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  read 
danger  in  it.  Miss  Delaney,  with  a  promptitude  that 
does  her  honour,  takes  a  step  on  her  own  account,  but 
backward  this  time,  and  might  perhaps  have  even 
taken  to  an  ignominious  flight,  but  for  the  fact  that  in 
the  drawing-room  window  that  overlooks  the  garden 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  179 

in  which  she  is  now  standing  Murphy  is  plainly  to  be 
seen,  'viewing  the  landscape  o'er  '  with  an  appreciative 
eye.  '  In  a  multitude  lies  safety.*  Miss  Delaney 
regains  her  courage  ;  Mr.  Hume,  to  whom  that 
superior  old  person  has  also  become  visible,  loses 
strength.  Miss  Delaney,  casting  on  her  late  antago- 
nist a  mischievous  glance  of  triumph,  addresses  her- 
self specially  to  Murphy. 

*  Murphy !'  cries  she,  calling  out  to  him  in  a 
clear  ringing  voice  that  savours  of  victory.  She 
waits  for  an  answer,  but  that  gentleman,  who  has 
been  vigorously  dusting  nothing  with  a  feather  brush, 
whilst  keeping  a  wary  eye  upon  the  two  outside, 
decides  not  to  answer.  *  No,  no,'  says  he  com- 
posedly, communing  with  his  own  heart,  whilst 
whirling  the  brush  with  renewed  power ;  'if  he 
means  anything,  'twill  be  a  match  for  the  honour  an' 
glory  of  the  family,  an'  who  am  I  that  I  should  inter- 
fere just  now  V 

So  Miss  Delaney  calls  to  him  in  vain ;  but  not  for 
long. 

*  Murphy  !'  she  cries  again — a  rather  indignant 
inflection    in    her    voice   this    time.      So    indignant, 

12 — 2 


1 80  A  BORN  COQ  UE  TTE. 

indeed,  that  Murphy,  assuming  the  most  innocent 
expression  at  his  disposal — and  that  is  guileless 
indeed — advances,  and,  thrusting  his  head  out  of  the 
window,  says  : 

'  Did  ye  call  me, miss,  or  was  it  dhramin'  I  was?' 
'No,  you  were  not  dreaming,'  says  Nan,  with  an 
angry  glance  at  him  that,  I  need  hardly  say,  is  passed 
over  by  this  unscrupulous  old  man  as  though  it  had 
never  been. 

'  'Tis  failin'  I  am,'  says  he  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
*  Me  sinses  aren't  what  they  were.  They're  decaivin' 
me  ivery  day,  bad  luck  to  thim  !  And  what  d'ye 
want  now,  miss,  eh  V 

'  Where  is  Miss  Gladys  V  asks  she,  fixing  him  with 
a  glance  that  says  plainly,  '  Don't  think  you  will  take 
me  in.' 

*  I'll  see,  miss,'  says  Mr.  Murphy,  shuffling  away. 
'What  fools  thim  girls  is!'  says  he  to  himself, 
terrible  contempt  in  his  tone.  'There's  her  luck 
almost  within  her  fist,  an'  she  wouldn't  close  on  it. 
Another  minit  an'  she'd  have  been  as  good  as  Mrs. 
Hume,  an'  she  must  call  on  ould  Murphy  to  come 
forward   an'  break   the  words  in  his  throat.     Arrah, 


i 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  i8i 

what  ails  her  at  all,  at  all,  wid  her  philanderin^  here 
an'  there,  an'  her  tomfoolery  ?  Fegs_,  'tis  born  agin 
she'll  have  to  be  before  she  gets  a  grain  o'  sinse.' 

'  Come  in,  come  in,'  Nan  is  saying  from  the  top  of 
the  balcony  steps,  up  which  she  has  run,  seeing  how 
Murphy  has  deserted  her.  '  Supper  must  be  ready 
now,  and  I  know  you  are  starving.' 

'  I'm  not/  says  Hume. 

'  Well,  there  is  something  the  matter  with  you,  at  all 
events,'  says  she  with  a  wicked  little  glance. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

'  What  need  had  we  for  thought  or  cares?' 
•^  -x-  -^  •  -it 

'  I  can  recall  with  what  gay  youth, 
To  what  light  chorus, 
Unsobered  yet  by  time  or  change, 
We  warned  the  many  gabled  grange — 
All  life  before  us.' 

The  impromptu  supper  has  proved  itself  a  decided 
success.  It  has  gone  off  without  a  hitch.  Mr.  Murphy- 
has  indeed  surpassed  himself,  and  behaved  with  such 
dignity,  such  noble  care  for  the  wants  of  all  (Hume, 
however,  very  specially),  that  it  is  no  wonder  that  the 
latter  individual  regards  him  with  an  admiring  eye. 
It  may  safely  be  affirmed  that  up  to  this  Mr.  Hume 
has  unhappily  been  ignorant  of  a  butler  so  advanced  in 
his  ideas  as  Murphy. 

The  old  attendant's  superior   behaviour   has   not, 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  183 

however,  been  altogether  able  to  subdue  the  natural 
spirits  of  those  whom  fate,  by  a  supreme  mistake,  has 
placed   over  him.      The   nondescript  meal   has  been 
carried  through  with  a  gaiety  that  might  almost  be 
termed  hilarious.     To  Mr.  Hume,  who  has  been  accus- 
tomed only  to  the  society  of  such  well-regulated  girls 
as  are  to  be  met  with  on  the  beaten  paths  of  regular 
seasons  in  '  London  town/  it  occurs  that  the  Delaney 
girls  are  singularly  young  and  fresh,  and  unspoiled  by 
this  old  world,  through  which  we  must  all  work  our 
way  (be  it  long  or  short)  to  the  eternal  world  beyond. 
But  supper  once  over,  a  pang  seizes  upon  the  breasts 
of  both  Nan  and  Penelope.     Neither  of  their  guests, 
Hume  or  Croker,  shows  the  slightest  symptom  of  a 
desire  to  move  on,  and  what  is  to  be  done  with  them 
for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  1     Had   they  been 
older,  or  better  versed  in  thought-reading,  or  a  little 
more  given  over  to  vanity,  they  might  have  divined 
that  neither  of  these  young  men  seeks  or  desires  any- 
thing better  than  their  own  most  desirable  and  undi- 
luted company.     But  as  the  case  stands,  they  feel  a 
little  blank,  and  for  a  while  after  they  return  to  the 
drawing-room  conversation  falls  to  zero. 


1 84  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Suddenly  a  diversion  is  offered  to  them  that  creates 
a  little  flutter  in  their  breasts.  Through  the  open 
windows  that  hold  command  of  the  avenue,  Captain 
Ffrench  may  be  seen  approaching  rapidly.  His  head 
is  bent ;  with  his  stick  he  beats  every  now  and  then 
the  unoffending  air — he  even  decapitates  a  tall 
dandelion.  It  is,  indeed,  quite  plain  to  all  that  he 
comes  not  in  peace. 

'What's  he  coming  for  at  this  hour?'  says  Croker, 
turning  instinctively  to  Penelope,  who  is  sitting  near 
him,  or,  rather,  whom  he  is  sitting  near.  '  Nan,  eh  ? 
or,'  with  a  sharp  distrustful  glance  at  her,  '  you  ?' 

Penelope  laughs. 

*  Is  it  for  you  ?'  questions  Croker,  staring  even 
more  keenly  at  her.  '  I  have  often  wondered  at  his 
devotion  to  this  house,  but ' 

*  You  always  thought  it  was  Nan  ;  very  uncivil,  but 
very  true,'  says  Penelope. 

'  Is  it  true,  though  ?'  says  Croker  quickly.  Like 
all  true  lovers,  he  cannot  imagine  how  any  man  can 
admire  another,  whilst  his  own  faultless  one  is  within 
view.  A  young  man,  without  sufficient  prospects  to 
give  him  a  sense  of  bien  ttre^  rising  barrister  though 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  185 

he  undoubtedly  is,  Croker  has,  so  far,  shrunk  from 
asking  Penelope  to  share  his  fortunes.  After  all,  the 
generous  things  that  have  been  said  of  him  by  the 
senior  Bar  may  or  may  not  mean  daily  bread ;  and 
until  he  is  sure,  what  right  has  he  to  even  try  to  win 
a  girl's  heart  ?  All  this,  of  course,  is  decidedly  correct 
in  theory,  but  difficult  to  carry  out  in  practice.  The 
tongue  may  be  obstinately  silent  ;  but  the  eyes  (those 
most  insubordinate  of  features)  will  speak,  and 
Penelope  long  ere  this  has  told  herself  that  Croker 
loves  her.  The  little  foolish  touch  of  jealousy  he  now 
displays  only  adds  to  this  belief.  Out  of  the  very 
fulness  of  her  happy  heart  she  laughs  at  it. 

'Perhaps  not,  then,'  says  she  saucily;  'say  it  is 
this  little  girl,'  laying  her  gentle  hand  upon  her 
bosom,  '  whom  our  warlike  cousin  loves.  And  after 
that,  what  ?' 

'  After  that,  nothing,'  returns  he  shortly. 

'  Let  me  tell  you  that  you  are  both  wrong — both 
lost  in  a  fog  of  folly,'  says  Gladys,  parting  the 
window  curtains,  and  holding  them  one  in  each  hand 
so  as  to  let  only  her  face  be  seen.  'It  is  to  see  me 
he  comes,   of  course.'     She  stretches   out  her  long, 


i 


1 86  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

thin,  childish  neck,  and  laughs  aloud.  '  How  stupid 
of  you  not  to  have  thought  of  that  before  !' 

'  For  you,  you  ugly  little  thing !  go  to !'  says 
Croker,  regarding  the  childish  creature  with  an 
amused  glance. 

*Pouf!  A  fig  for  you!'  cries  Gladys,  snapping 
her  fingers  at  him.  *  Come,  now  ;  a  bet  with  you  ! 
you  profess  to  sneer  at  me,  yet  mark  my  words  ; 
they  ' — pointing  with  distinct  disparagement  at  her 
sisters — 'may  marry  commoners,  and' — with  an 
indescribably  mischievous  shrug  of  her  shoulders  — 
'  good  enough  for  them,  too  ;  but  as  for  me,  I  shall 
marry  a  lord  P 

'  Is  that  your  unalterable  decision  ?■*   asks  Croker. 

'  Yes.' 

*  Then  my  prayers  be  yours !'  says  Croker 
devoutly.  '  Yet,'  thoughtfully,  ^  after  all,  you  are  but 
following  out  the  old  order  of  things  that  as  yet 
changeth  never.  There  must  always  be  one  old 
maid  in  every  family.  To  disbelieve  that  would  be 
to  upset  the  Constitution.  You  shall  be  the  old  maid 
here  —  the  Delaney  old  maid  —  the  one  who  has 
defied  the  tyrant  man  !' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  187 

'  Oh  !'  cries  Gladys,  darting  towards  him  swift  as 
a  swallow,  and  pounding  him  sharply  with  her  small 
hands.  '  And  there  isn't  a  word  of  truth  in  it,  either. 
Where  is  the  old  maid  amongst  the  Blakes,  or  the 
D'Arcys,  or  the  Desmonds  ?  Come,  now,  answer  me 
that !' 

But  to  answer  that  is  beyond  him,  and,  indeed,  to 
follow  out  his  argument  possesses  elements  of  difficulty 
not  to  be  overcome,  Gladys  looks  so  altogether  unlike 
a  person  who  might  eventually  be  an  old  maid. 
***** 

But  even  this  diversion  cannot  hide  the  fact  that 
there  is  little  to  be  done  to  make  the  evening  pass  by 
without  the  damnatory  yawn.  Ffrench  has  come  in, 
has  been  welcomed  ;  has  been  smiled  at  by  Nan,  who 
receives  only  a  scowl  in  return,  and  now  what  is  to 
come  next  ? 

All  the  Delaneys  are  at  their  wits'  ends  to  devise  an 
amusement  of  some  sort,  that  may  overcome  the  chill 
that  has  followed  on  Ffrench's  entry,  when  William, 
who  has  been  mysteriously  absent  for  half  an  hour, 
flings  open  the  door,  and,  standing  on  the  threshold, 
gazes  benevolently  on  the  assembled  guests.     All  at 


i88  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

once  Nan  and  Penelope  remember  his  words  of  the 
morning,  his  promise  to  help ;  they  stare  at  him  with 
hopeful  eyes  :  evidently  he  is  going  to  redeem  his 
words — he  is  going  to  entertain  these  three  young 
men  whom  Providence  has  thrust  upon  them  almost 
without  warning. 

'  Have  any  of  you    ever   seen  a  devil  ?'    demands 

William,  in  a  deep  sepulchral  tone. 

iff  *  *  *  * 

This  extraordinary  question  acts  like  an  electric 
shock  on  his  hearers,  and  stiffens  them  all  into 
silence.  After  a  minute  or  so  Croker  takes  courage, 
and  lets  a  feeble  remark  pass  his  lips. 

'The  devil !'  says  he,  half  quizzically,  half  amused, 
a  good  deal  surprised. 

*  When  one  comes  to  look  into  it,  the  answer  to 
that  question  seems  to  depend  very  considerably 
upon  what  kind  of  devil  you  mean,'  says  Hume. 

He  speaks  without  prejudice  of  any  sort,  yet  in- 
voluntarily his  gaze  falls  on  Ffrench.  There  is 
meaning  in  it  of  a  kind  hardly  understood  even  by 
its  creator ;  but  Ffrench  catches  it,  holds  it  awhile, 
and   then   releases  it  by  letting  his  eyes   fall  to  the 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  189 

ground.  Is  he  a  devil,  then,  in  Hume^s  sight  ?  His 
already  too  saturnine  countenance  takes  an  even 
gloomier  tinge. 

*  A  devil !  I  should  love  to  see  one,'  cries  Gladys 
at  this  eventful  juncture,  darting  from  behind  her 
curtains  into  the  fuller  light  of  the  lamps.  'And 
William  makes  them  to  perfection.  Nothing  like  a 
powder-devil  for  fun  !  First  it  goes  piff — piff,  quite 
mildly,  don't  you  know  ;  then  paff-pafif,  as  it  grows 
bolder,  quite  noisily,  as  it  were  ;  and  then,  at  last, 
puff,  puff,  with  a  regular  explosion.  Oh,  I  do  love  a 
devil !' 

'  To  look  at  her,  one  would  scarcely  expect  it/  says 
Croker  meekly. 

*  William !  Have  you  got  one  ready  now  V 
demands  the  third  Miss  Delaney,  taking  no  notice 
whatever  of  this  aside. 

'Quite  ready,'  says  William  genially,  and  then, 
after  a  pause,  '  too  ready.  You'll  have  to  run,  all  of 
you,  if  you  want  to  be  in  time.  I'm  afraid  it's  too 
dry.  It's  been  made  more  than  half  an  hour,  and  if 
too  dry  it  may  go  off  in  spite  of  me.' 

*  That  sounds  like  a  threat,'  says  Croker. 


I90  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Supposing  we  should  be  a  trifle  late,  and  it 
went  off,  what  would  be  the  result  ?'  asks  Hume, 
addressing  Nan,  who,  either  by  design  or  chance, 
has  been  drifted  towards  him.  She  has  been  equally- 
kind  to  both  him  and  Ffrench  ;  therefore  both  young 
men  believe  themselves  to  be  specially  favoured  by 
her.  Nevertheless,  Ffrench  has  not  yet  seen  fit  to 
cast  aside  the  despondent  mood  with  which  he  had 
entered.  He  takes  upon  him  now  to  answer  Hume's 
question. 

*  Probably  blow  the  house  to  bits,  with  all  the  in- 
habitants thereof,'  he  says  with  such  undisguised  and 
ghoulish  hope  in  his  tone  as  strikes  cold  to  the  hearts 
of  his  listeners.  He  makes  it  plain  to  them,  indeed, 
that  should  such  a  general  burst-up  take  place,  it 
would  be  rather  to  his  liking  than  otherwise. 

'  Great  Heaven !  let  us  haste,'  cries  Croker, 
seizing  upon  Penelope,  tucking  her  arm  into  his, 
and  making  for  the  door.  '  Every  moment  is  of 
value.  Charge,  William,  charge  !  On,  Stanley,  on  ! 
Let  us,  at  all  events,  face  death  with  a  goodly 
courage  !' 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

'  I  admire  your  tact,  dividing 
Smiles  to  each  in  equal  share, 
Lest  one  slave  wax  over-jealous. 
Or  another  grow  less  zealous, 
Beauty  Clare.' 

Just  before  they  reach  the  scene  of  WiUiam's 
diversion — just,  indeed,  as  they  are  all  clattering 
noisily  across  the  hall — Nan  pauses  and  holds  up  her 
hands. 

'  Easy,  easy  I  Don^t  make  such  a  row !'  whispers 
she.  '  Father  sleeps  exactly  over  the  schoolroom,  and 
if  he  hears  us  there  will  be ' 

'  The  devil  to  pay,'  interrupts  Bartle  blithely. 
'  Weil,  all  right — we're  just  going  to  pay  it,  with 
William's  help.' 

*  I  hope  the  smell  won't  go  up  through  the  ceiling,' 
says  Gladys  anxiously. 


192  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Smell  ?  Is  there  a  smell  ?'  asks  Penelope,  who 
is  the  daintiest  of  them  all.  She  hangs  back  a  little 
and  looks  nervously  at  Croker,  who,  surmising  there  is 
gunpowder  to  be  used  in  the  projected  game,  finds  a 
difficulty  in  reassur'ng  her. 

'Oh,  such  a  smell!'  says  a  piping  voice  behind 
them.  They  all  turn,  and  find  the  two  children,  like 
two  culprits,  gazing  imploringly  at  them  from  the 
last  step  of  the  staircase.  The  elegant  negligence  of 
their  costumes  suggests  the  idea  that  they  have  been 
to  bed  and  have  just  got  up  again.  Appearances  are 
ofttlmes  deceitful,  but  not  in  this  instance. 

Henjy's  breeches  are  hanging  considerably  lower 
than  they  ought  to  hang ;  they  betray,  indeed,  a 
singular  longing  to  retire  into  his  boots.  His  startled 
relatives,  staring  at  him,  lost  in  wonder  at  this  freak 
on  the  part  of  his  unmentionables,  become  presently 
aware  of  the  fact  that  braces  have  been  scornfully 
cast  aside,  and  that  nothing  earthly  still  keeps  him  in 
the  paths  of  decency  save  a  stout  piece  of  cord  twisted 
tightly  round  his  slim,  lithe  body.  His  coat  is  care- 
lessness itself.     He  shows  a  good  deal  of  shirt. 

As  for  Miss  Nolly,  beyond  the  fact  that  her  eyes 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  i93 

are  big  with  sleep,  and  that  her  little  white  feet  are 
thrust  into  her  shoes  regardless  of  stockings,  there  is 
nothing  very  remarkable  about  her. 

*  Oh,  do  let  us  come !  Do,  do,  do !'  cries  she. 
'  Moriarty  told  us  William  was  going  to  have  a  devil 
in  the  schoolroom.  And  we  have  been  so  good.  We 
didn't  say  a  word  when  you  wouldn't  let  us  come  to 
the  supper.  Did  we,  now  ?  Did  we,  Nan  ?  We 
went  to  bed  quite  quiet,  and  let  our  stockings  be 
pulled  off  without  pinching  up  our  toes.  And  we 
said  our  prayers,  and — Nanny — Nanny  P 

'  Oh  !  they're  dreadful — they're  dreadful,'  says  Nan. 
'  But — yes — come  on,  you  two — but  not  a  word.  Do 
you  hear  ?     Not  one  word.' 

Like  two  mice  the  happy  children  advance,  dancing 
a  little  breakdown  as  they  come,  and  together  they  all 
enter  the  schoolroom. 

It  is  a  real  schoolroom  ;  that  is,  about  the  shabbiest 
room  to  be  seen  anywhere.  Ink-stains  here,  paint- 
stains  there  ;  aged  chairs,  tables  on  the  verge  of  dis- 
solution. One  old  sofa  that  might  have  been  pur- 
chased when  the  Ark  furniture  was  put  up  to  auction, 
supposing  Mrs.  Noah  to  have  been  fond  of  a  nap  now 

VOL.  I.  13 


194  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

and  then  out  of  season,  which,  after  all,  could  hardly 
be  accounted  laziness  on  her  part ;  for  what  she  was 
to  do  save  sleep  during  those  terribly  dull  days,  forty 
days  of  rain,  one's  intellect  fails  to  fathom.  No  novels, 
no  gossip,  no  piano  (the  damp  would  have  put  it  out 
of  order  at  once),  no  friends  to  drop  in  and  revile 
society  at  large. 

In  the  middle  of  this  room,  upon  the  ink-stained 
floor,  stands  a  dinner-plate  with  a  black  pyramid 
erect  upon  the  centre  of  it.  This  harmless  object 
(apparently)  is  the  devil !  Like  all  such  low  ac- 
quaintances, it  is  not  to  be  depended  upon — is  sure  to 
play  you  false  in  the  long-run.  At  present,  however, 
this  devil  of  William's  sits  there  as  calm  as  calm  can 
be,  without  so  much  as  a  suspicion  of  guile  about  it. 

'  Now  lower  the  lamp  !'  says  William,  taking  pre- 
cedence as  Master  of  the  Ceremonies.  The  lamp  is 
lowered. 

The  room  sinks  into  a  gloom  that  hides  its  imper- 
fections and  almost  raises  it  into  beauty.  All  the 
onlookers,  William's  audience,  stand  round  in  a  circle. 
The  two  children,  full  of  delicious  anticipation  of 
something  that  may  frighten  them  out  of  their  wits, 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  195 

stand  together,  and  next  to  them  Penelope,  with 
Croker  beside  her.  Then  Hume,  then  Nan,  and  then 
Boyle  Ffrench.  Beyond  these,  completing  the  half- 
circle,  stand  Gladys  and  Bartle. 

Now  Nan,  since  Ffrench's  entrance,  had  been 
specially  kind  to  him  ;  she  had  not  succeeded,  indeed, 
in  assuaging  the  wild  ravagings  of  jealousy  that  had 
seized  upon  him  when  he  saw  her  with  Hume — an 
invited  guest — on  his  first  entrance  into  the  drawing- 
room,  but  she  had  certainly  succeeded  in  raising  his 
passion  to  fever-heat.  So  quietly  was  this  done,  that 
Hume  had  not  been  at  all  unsettled  in  his  now  certain 
hope  that  time  only  was  required  to  make  her  his. 

She  had  refused  him,  indeed,  in  a  shapeless,  vague 
sort  of  way;  but  that  she  meant  that  refusal — that 
she,  at  all  events,  meant  it  to  be  final — was  surely 
denied  by  her  manner,  her  tone,  her  glance  (oh, 
what  a  glance  !) — her  whole  air,  indeed,  as  she  stood 
on  those  balcony  steps.  There  had  been  distinct  en- 
couragement in  them,  and  even  a  gentle  liking.  No, 
he  would  be  faint-hearted  no  longer;  he  would  believe 
in  his  power  to  win  her.  Perhaps  he  had  been  back- 
ward hitherto,  had  not  declared  his  honest  love  for 


196  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

her  in  language  plain.  There  was  time  enough  for 
that,  but,  as  we  all  know,  there  is  no  time  like  the 
present. 

The  room  is  very  dark  by  this.  Emboldened  by 
his  new  sudden  resolution  to  lose  no  time,  he  puts  out 
his  hand — that  one  nearest  Nan — and,  catching  hers, 
holds  it  fast.  His  heart  beats  high  with  hope  as  he 
finds  that  the  slender  fingers  rest  in  his  quietly,  un- 
resistingly. If  they  make  no  fond  return  for  the  warm 
pressure  he  bestows  upon  them,  they  do  not  at  least 
repel  it. 

All  is  joy  ! — in  one  breast,  at  least — until  unkindly 
Chance,  that  maddest  of  all  imps,  drops  down  upon 
them. 

It  is,  indeed,  this  particular  moment  that  Henjy 
(who  is  ever  full  of  enterprise)  elects  to  turn  up  the 
lamp,  that  hitherto  has  shrouded  the  dingy  apartment 
in  a  delicate  darkness — this  moment  in  which  Hume 
has  for  the  first  time  assured  himself  that  she  has,  at 
least,  betrayed  for  him  a  preference — placed  him  in 
advance  of  his  rival  in  her  regard.  Alas  for  all  such 
fond  hopes ! 

Henjy,  stealing  on  tiptoe  across  the  room — bent  on 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  197 

throwing  light  on  WiUiam,  who  is  kneeling  on  the 
floor  before  his  devil,  and  evidently  working  some 
incantation  which  Henjy  longs  to  see — suddenly 
throws  a  flood  of  light  over  the  room,  disclosing 
William  indeed,  but  more  than  that :  Nan,  with  her 
right  hand  tightly  clasped  by  Hume — and — more 
than  that,  too — Nan's  left  hand  clasped  by  Ffrench. 

As  though  sharply  smitten  by  some  unseen  power, 
both  lovers  let  go  the  slender  treacherous  hands,  and 
for  a  second  stand  staring,  not  at  each  other,  but  at 
her.  Some  faint  last  remnant  of  grace  must  lie 
hidden  in  her  breast,  because  she  blushes  hotly,  and 
hangs  her  pretty  head  quite  low. 

There  is  a  long,  a  terrible  pause,  fraught  with  pain 
for  some,  and  considerable  danger  for  Croker,  who  is 
on  the  verge  of  apoplexy  in  spite  of  the  indignant 
gaze  that  Penelope  has  fixed  on  him.  This  warm 
and  most  undesirable  radiance  that  the  child  has  cast 
upon  the  room  has  reduced  all  to  silence.  All  save 
William.  That  youth,  oblivious  of  everything  except 
the  successful  going  off  of  his  dear  devil,  now  causes 
a  happy  interruption  by  lifting  up  his  voice  and 
yelling  out  to  Henjy  with  a  fervour  that  might  have 


198  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

raised  the  dead,  and  that  certainly  reduces  Henjy  to 
the  verge  of  despair. 

'  Hang  it  all  !'  cries  he  in  a  frenzied  fashion,  *  will 
nobody  put  out  that  light  ?  Henjy,  is  this  your  doing? 
Go  away !     Go  away,  I  say,  or  I'll ' 

Words  fail  him.  He  still  kneels  before  his  black 
and  dangerous  fetish,  looking  like  a  huge  sprawling 
frog;  but  though  he  glares  at  Henjy,  who  is  evidently 
in  the  last  stage  of  fright,  nothing  comes  of  it. 

'  What  ails  you  V  roars  William.  *  Put  out  that 
light,  I  say !  You'll  spoil  everything.  Why  don't 
you  move  ?     It  is  going  off,  I  tell  you  !' 

'My  breeches  are  going  off!'  cries  Henjy,  with  a 
miserable  shriek  and  a  wild  clutch  at  those  unstable 
garments.  Somebody  discreetly  lowers  the  lamp 
once  more ;  Penelope  seizes  on  the  discomfited  child 
and  speedily  restores  him  to  moral  and  physical  com- 
fort, and  Croker  is  saved  from  death.  Here  is  an 
opportunity  given  to  laugh,  and  he  takes  it. 

Once  more  darkness  covers  the  room,  but  this  time 
Nan  bears  its  terrors  alone. 

'  Look  out !  now  it's  going  off,  really,'  cries  William, 
through  the  gloom. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

'  His  work  outlives  him — there's  his  glory  !' 
*  *  *  *  * 

And  off  it  goes,  with  a  tiny  spluttering  and  fizzing 
that  increases  momentarily.  Golden  sparks  fly  up 
from  it  that  delight  the  beholders,  with  every  now 
and  then  a  thicker  shower  that  draws  shrieks  of  joy 
from  the  younger  folks.  It  is,  indeed,  a  most 
obliging  little  devil,  and  does  its  best  to  entertain  its 
company.     All  grow  interested ;  all  lean  forward. 

*  Those  paltry  fireworks  at  the  Crystal  Palace 
couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  it,'  says  Croker,  with 
enthusiasm. 

'  I'm  glad  they  are  not  in  a  position  to  do  it,  at 
all  events,-'  says  Bartle.  ^  I  say,  William,  the  lower 
basement  is  rather  thick,  isn't  it }  Likely  to  go  off, 
eh.?' 


200  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  funk  ?'  says  William, 
with  scathing  contempt. 

It  is  indeed  remarkably  stout  at  its  base,  altogether 
quite  a  prodigious  pyramid  of  its  kind,  and  takes  a 
long  time  to  work  through.  Not  too  long,  however, 
for  the  enraptured  audience — if  we  except  two.  They 
congratulate  the  delighted  William,  the  children  clap 
their  hands ;  Hume  so  far  recovers  himself  as  to 
answer  laughingly  a  remark  of  Penelope's. 

But  to  every  joy,  as  we  all  know  to  our  cost,  is 
given  an  accompanying  grief.  Presently  all  become 
aware  of  a  diabolical  incense,  that,  rising  from  the 
soup-plate  on  which  the  devil  reposes,  threatens  to 
overpower  the  company  with  its  detestable  fumes. 
Everyone  at  first  —  out  of  regard  to  William — tries 
hard  to  endure  it  in  silence ;  everyone  is  slow  to  speak 
about  it ;  all  try  to  smother  their  feelings  and  their 
faces  in  their  pocket-handkerchiefs. 

Human  nature  at  last,  however,  gives  way.  The 
powder  proves  too  much  for  Mr.  Croker. 

'  What  a  heaven-born  perfume !'  exclaims  he  in  a 
fainting  tone. 

It  is  the  signal  for  a  general  chorus  of  dismay. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE,  201 

*Pouf!  Oh,  William,  William!'  breathes  Nan,  as 
though  suffocating.  She  has  been  buried  in  her  hand- 
kerchief, almost  from  the  first  ;  drowned  in  remorseful 
tears  as  both  Ffrench  and  Hume  hope,  eying  her 
through  the  semi-darkness,  but  now  they  are  un- 
deceived :  for  the  second  time  she  has  dealt  most 
treacherously  with  them  ;  William's  devils  are  not  un- 
known to  her,  she  had  only  been  preparing  for  the 
worst.  Her  voice  is  one  of  muffled  agony ;  it  almost 
suggests  itself  to  her  hearers  that  she  is  holding  her 
nose  with  all  her  might. 

*  Rubbish  !'  speculates  William  unfeelingly  ;  *  one 
would  think  none  of  you  fellows  had  ever  held  a  gun  !' 

This  is  manifestly  unfair,  as  Miss  Delaney  is  not  a 
fellow,  and  certainly  never  held  a  gun  in  his  sense. 
But  though  remonstrated  with,  William  sticks  to  his 
guns  and  declines  to  apologize. 

And  still  the  devil  burns  slowly  on,  still  the  odour 
rises.  One  thought,  and  one  only,  is  in  every  mind 
now — how  to  escape  from  the  room  without  offending 
William,  before  death  overtakes  them.  Looks  are 
interchanged,  but  each  one  recoils  from  taking  the 
first  step.     As  for  the  girls,  they  indeed  feel  bound  to 


202  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

remain  :  was  it  not  for  their  benefit,  to  please  them, 
to  help  them  to  entertain  their  guests,  that  William 
organized  this  show  ?  Gratitude  forbids  their  de- 
parture, at  all  events.  To  basely  desert  him  now,  after 
all  the  pains  he  has  taken  for  their  sakes — no !  it  is 
not  to  be  done. 

'What  can't  be  cured  must  be  endured,'  quotes 
Gladys  to  Bartle  in  a  tone  of  solemn  resignation. 
*  Though  I  must  say  I  call  it  a  shame  that  we  should 
be  sacrificed  when  it  is  only  Nan  and  Penelope 
who ' 

The  words  die  on  her  lips. 

Crash !  Bang  !  K-r-r-r-r  i  Merciful  powers  !  what 
on  earth  has  happened }  The  thing,  the  devil, 
has  gone  off — has  exploded — and  William — where  is 
William  .''     Is  William  dead  ? 

'William!  William!' 

Great  Heaven !  why  doesn't  he  speak  ?  Is  he 
lying  about  in  bits  that  he  makes  no  response }  Will 
nobody  turn  up  that  lamp  ? 

Somebody  does,  only  to  make  wretched  conjecture 
a  still  more  wretched  truth.  As  light  is  cast  upon 
the  scene    of  this    cruel   catastrophe,  a   truly   awful 


i 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  203 

spectacle  presents  itself  to  the  eyes  of  the  horrified 
spectators.  The  devil — true  child  of  Satan — is 
scattered  to  the  four  winds,  the  soup-plate  has  found  a 
home  in  many  corners,  and  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
debris,  prone,  apparently  lifeless,  lies  William,  or  what 
remains  of  him,  so  flat,  so  spread,  so  altogether  one 
with  the  floor,  that  involuntarily,  even  in  the  midst  of 
one's  grief  one  wonders  what  can  have  become  of  his 
nose.     Is  it  squashed  out  of  all  recognition  ? 

They  rush  forward.  They  fling  themselves  precipi- 
tately upon  their  knees.  Mr.  Hume,  catching  hold  of 
the  motionless  figure,  turns  it  over.  William's  face  is 
at  last  exposed  to  his  sorrowing  relatives. 

And  what  a  face  ! 

The  children  give  way  to  shrieks;  their  elders 
maintain  an  awestricken  silence,  as  though  frozen  by 
fear.  William's  face  is  as  black  as  your  hat !  Jet 
black ! 

Moreover,  the  eyelashes  and  eyebrows  have  dis- 
appeared, and  the  hair  over  the  left  ear  is  as  though  it 
had  never  been.     The  ear,  however,  remains. 

This  last  fact  conveys  some  sense  of  comfort  to  the 
stricken  onlookers.     William's  flesh,  black  though  it 


204  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

be,  is  at  all  events  intact.  How  quietly  he  lies,  poor 
soul ! 

Plainly,  it  is  all  over  with  William.  Nan  begins  to 
sob  ;  the  other  girls  follow  suit — the  children  have 
already  raised  a  hideous  din.  Hume,  stooping  down, 
lifts  this  latest — and  truly  terrible — Christy  Minstrel 
off  the  floor  and  on  to  his  arm,  and  contemplates  it 
with  a  wondering  grief.  Was  ever  negro  quite  so 
black  ? 

After  all,  he  wasn't  half  a  bad  boy.     Poor  William  ! 

So  quiet  now,  so All  at  once  he  relinquishes  his 

hold  of  William,  and  lays  him  back  upon  the  floor. 
The  corpse  has  begun  to  kick,  and  kick  badly.  Not 
slowly,  decorously,  as  a  corpse  should,  but  with  a 
vigour,  a  violence,  not  to  be  surpassed.  In  death,  as 
in  life,  William  holds  his  own. 

He  rises  on  his  heels  now,  and  casts  an  indignant 
glance  around  him.  His  eyes  are  rolling  terribly. 
The  children,  staring  at  him  aghast,  wonder  whether 
William  always  had  that  amount  of  white  beneath  his 
lids,  or  whether  the  effect  of  an  explosion  is  to 
generate  this  glaring  look.  If  the  first  supposition  be 
the  true  one,  William  has  evidently  kept  things  from 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  205 

them !     They  begin  to  lose  sympathy  with  him.  and 
to  nurse  a  grievance. 

*  It  went  off/  says  William,  staring  in  a  vacant 
manner  at  the  bits  of  broken  soup-plate  that  lie 
shattered  near  his  left  foot — at  least,  such  fragments 
as  go  to  prove  that  a  plate  of  that  particular  pattern 
had  once  been  there. 

*  It  did,'  says  Croker  feelingly,  and  very  nearly 
carried  you  with  it.     How's  your  head  ?' 

'Eh?'  says  William.  Croker's  manner  has  evidently 
frightened  him,  and  he  puts  both  hands  up  to  the 
member  in  question,  as  if  to  see  that  it  is  still  there. 
'What  ails  it  .^'  demands  he,  after  a  careful  handling 
of  it,  and  with  such  a  return  of  his  old  gruffness  as 
gladdens  the  hearts  of  the  children  and  convinces  the 
others  that  it  is  really  William  himself  in  the  flesh  who 
speaks. 

They  are  still  further  convinced  presently.  William, 
staring  at  the  china  chips  that  surround  him,  says 
anxiously: 

'  The  plate's  broken.' 

'A  little,'  says  Croker.  'But  don't  be  unhappy 
about  that.     Memory  will  always  sustain  us  : 


2o6  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  "  You  may  break,  you  may  shatter, 
The  plate  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  powder 
Will  hang  round  it  still."  ' 

'  Pick  me  up,'  says  William  to  Hume,  taking  no 
notice  of  this  volatile  flight  on  the  part  of  Croker. 

Hume  plants  him  firmly  on  his  feet,  where,  in 
utter  contradiction  to  all  their  conclusions,  he 
stands  as  firm  as  a  rock,  and  apparently  none  the 
worse  for  his  accident,  if  one  excepts  his  blackened 
face. 

'  It  was  too  dry,'  says  he  ;  '  I  told  you  so  in  the 
drawing-room,  but  not  one  of  you  would  hurry.  And 
so,  of  course,  it  went  off  with  a  bang  as  it  got  too  low. 
No  harm  done,  however.  I  say.  Nan,  what  is  to  be 
done  next,  eh  T 

He  is  still  true  to  his  desire  to  help  them. 

'  If  I  might  suggest  something,'  says  Hume,  laugh- 
ing, 'it  would  be  a  liberal  application  of  soap  and 
water  to  your  face.'  As  he  speaks,  he  regards  the 
dilapidated  William  with  almost  unreserved  amuse- 
ment. 

'  Why  1  What's  the  matter  with  it  ?'  demands 
William. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  207 

'Nothing — nothing  to  signify,'  says  Croker, '  except, 
perhaps,  a  sh'ght  deepening  of  the  original  tint.' 

'  Oh,  William,  don't  mind  him !'  cries  Henjy,  at  this 
point ;  '  you  are  black — black  as  the  coal.  Oh,  oh  !' 
Here  he  again  dissolves  into  tears,  and  hides  his  face 
on  Nan's  shoulder. 

*  Did  it  hurt  you,  William  V  asks  little  Norah, 
drawing  near,  with  uncertain  steps,  as  if  half  afraid  of 
him.  '  Did  it  burn  ?  Was  it  like  hot  coals  ?'  She  is 
evidently  athirst  for  knowledge. 

*  It  was,  I  think,'  says  William,  rather  vaguely. 

'  Was  it  like  what  King  David  says,  "  like  coals  of 
fire  on  your  head  "  T  pursues  Norah,  who  is  bent  on 
getting  all  she  can  out  of  it. 

'  The  image  of  it,'  says  Croker.  '  You  remember 
that  book  "  She  "  you  are  so  fond  of.'*  You  remember 
the  "hot-potting"  business  in  that?  Well,  those 
"coals  of  fire"  you  spoke  of  just  now  is  the  first  known 
hint  given  about  that  delightful  old  punishment — the 
origin  of  it,  in  fact.  But  they  found  the  coals  difficult 
to  manage  :  they  would  not  stick,  do  you  see,  so  a  very 
scientific  fellow  they  had  in  their  midst  most  for- 
tunately thought  of  the  pots.     His  suggestion  was  at 


2o8  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

once  adopted,  as  being  surer,  and  decidedly  more 
graceful.  From  that  still  later — here  in  our  own 
times — comes  the  chimney-pot  hat.  Most  interesting, 
eh  ?     See  it  ?' 

*  No,  I  don't,'  says  Nolly  brusquely,  eying  him 
with  manifest  distrust. 

A  short  but  eloquent  exclamation,  coming  from 
Gladys,  at  this  moment  puts  an  end  to  the  argu- 
ment. 

'What  is  it?'  asks  Penelope,  turning  to  her. 

*  Listen  !'  says  she,  holding  up  her  hand,  with  such  a 
terrified  expression  on  her  countenance  that  instantly 
they  all  grow  as  rigid  as  herself,  and  begin  to  strain 
their  ears  with  all  their  might. 

Tap,  tap,  tap.  The  sound  of  a  stick — the  sound  of 
two  shuffling  feet.  Near,  nearer  still ;  awfully  near 
now — in  fact,  just  outside  the  door. 

*  Father  !'  says  Nan,  in  a  frozen  tone.  Forgetful  in 
this  supreme  moment  of  her  late  disgraceful  be- 
haviour, she  turns  instinctively  to  Hume,  as  if  to  im- 
plore his  assistance  to  sink  through  the  floor. 

Alas!  the  disappearing-lady  trick  is  unknown  to 
him.     He  has  culpably  neglected  his  education  in  the 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  209 

most  essential  line.     Miserable  man !    his  ignorance 
is  now  his  undoing. 

The  footsteps  come  to  a  standstill  just  outside. 
Within,  deadly  silence  reigns.  The  handle  rattles. 
The  door  slowly  opens. 


VOL.  I.  14 


CHAPTER  XX. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin, 

Like  a  staff ; 
And  a  crook  is  on  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh.' 


Such  a  figure  presents  itself  to  their  awe-stricken  eyes 
that  at  first  Hume  (to  whom  alone  it  is  a  stranger) 
hesitates  as  to  whether  it  is  really  a  man  or  only  a 
'tatter't  boggart.'  An  instant's  reflection,  however, 
convinces  him  that  it  is  indeed  Mr.  Delaney  who 
stands  over  there  glowering  at  them  and  covering 
them  with  an  evil  eye. 

A  small,  lean,  unkempt  old  man,  with  a  mean, 
malicious  face,  and  shrunken  limbs  clothed  in  a  scanty 
garment  that  might  by  courtesy  be  termed  a  dressing- 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  211 

gown.  On  his  gray  and  streaming  locks  sits  an 
abnormally  tall  nightcap,  surmounted  by  a  tassel  that 
goes  bob,  bob,  bob  into  his  left  eye.  Naturally  this 
incessant  tattoo  increases  the  indignation  with  which 
he  is  already  overcharged  ;  yet  it  never  seems  to  occur 
to  him  to  alter  the  position  of  the  irritating  tassel. 
Hume,  still  lost  in  amazed  contemplation  of  the 
striking  object  in  the  doorway,  begins  to  wonder 
whether  the  astounding  cap  is  not  part  of  the  head, 
and  if  the  tassel  grew  like  that,  and  cannot  now  be 
altered. 

*  What's  all  this  about  ?'  demands  Mr.  Delaney, 
glaring  round  him,  and  plainly  undisturbed  by  shame 
at  the  spectacle  he  presents  to  the  eyes  of  his  visitors. 
•  What's  all  this  about,  eh  ?' 

This  delicate  question  goes  unanswered.  Nan  has 
meanly  got  behind  Hume,  and  Penelope  has  taken 
shelter  in  the  shadow  of  an  old  bookcase.  As  for 
Gladys,  lost  to  all  hope,  she  has  begun  to  laugh, 
silently  indeed,  but  immoderately,  helplessly. 

Receiving  no  reply,  Mr.  Delaney  gathers  up  his 
loins  and  fixes  his  attentions  on  the  luckless  Croker, 
who  happens  to  be  nearest  him. 

14 — 2 


212  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Mr.  Croker,  eh  ?'  snarls  he,  in  a  high  squeaking 
voice,  that  is  one  of  his  many  unpleasant  character- 
istics. '  Mr.  Croker,  I  think  }'  He  peers  at  Croker 
from  under  the  tassel  in  an  insolent  way,  as  if  unsure 
about  his  personality.  'Very  welcome  beneath  my 
roof,  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Croker.  But — er — to  what  am  I 
indebted  for  your  presence  here  .'" 

'  I  asked  him,  father,'  says  Bartle,  coming 
forward,  very  red,  very  nervous,  and  outrageously 
angry.  For  a  boy  of  his  age,  just  stepping  from 
extreme  youth  to  the  wider  manhood,  what  greater 
misery  can  there  be  than  to  see  a  guest  ungenerously 
treated  in  the  home  of  his  fathers  ? 

*  You  don't  say  so !'  says  Mr.  Delaney  with  an  air 
of  jubilant  astonishment.  *  Your  father  being  reduced 
to  a  state  of  dotage,  you  very  kindly  exercise  the 
rights  of  hospitality  in  his  stead.  Thank  you,  my 
good  Bartle,  a  thousand  thanks.  This  being  so,  and 
my  state  of  imbecility  being  mercifully  lightened  for  a 
moment  or  two,  perhaps  you  will  introduce  me  to  your 
— our  other  guests.'  He  passes  his  glance  deliberately 
from  Croker  to  Ffrench  (who  is  plainly  longing  for 
the  fray),  and  from  Ffrench  to  Hume. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  213 

*  For  example,'  says  this  dear  old  man  softly, 
staring  at  Hume,  '  who  is  that  extremely  handsome 
person  over  there  ?' 

Hume,  being  outside  the  pale  of  beauty,  this  shell 
is  evidently  delivered  with  a  view  to  insult. 

'  My  name  is  Hume,  sir/  says  that  young  man.  '  I 
am  a  near  neighbour  of  yours,  and  am  very  pleased 
to  make  your  acquaintance.  I  left  my  card,  but  was 
unfortunately  unable  to ' 

*  See  me !'  interrupts  Mr.  Delaney.  '  True,  you 
didn't  see  me.  That  misfortune  is,  however,  rectified 
now.  As  to  being  my  near  neighbour,  Mr.  Hume,  I 
would  quite  as  soon  some  other  man  were  that.  Your 
uncle,  that  disreputable  old  Colonel,  who ' 

*  Father  !'  says  Bartle  furiously. 

'You  seem  disturbed,^  says  Mr.  Delaney,  turning 
to  him.  The  old  lean  face  has  grown  livid  ;  the  gray, 
keen  ferrety  eyes  are  glowing.  '  You  would  correct 
me,  my  son,'  says  he,  with  an  abominable  suavity. 
*  You — you ' 

Here  all  at  once  the  suavity  gives  way,  the  virulent 
nature  of  the  man  breaks  loose. 

'Be    off!     Out    of   my  sight,   scum  of   the  earth  !' 


214  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

shrieks  he  in  his  squeaking  falsetto.  '  How  dare  you 
dictate  to  me !  Am  I  master  in  my  own  house  or 
not  ?  I'll  show  you !  Nan,  Penelope,  where  are 
you  lurking  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  countenance 
your  lovers,  or  whatever  they  are  ?  is  there  no  shame 
left  amongst  you  ?  Get  out  of  this — get  out,  the 
whole  pack  of  you  !'  flinging  his  arms  abroad,  and 
stamping  so  wildly  that  the  old  dressing-gown  is  on 
the  very  verge  of  a  final  dissolution,  and  heaven  alone 
knows  what  would  have  been  the  result  of  that. 
*  I'll  have  no  interlopers  here.  I'll  show  you  that 
my  house  is  my  own.  What,  what,  what !  I'm  to 
be  a  cipher  within  my  own  four  walls,  I  suppose, 
whilst  racketings,  and  shoutings,  and  explosions  are 
going  on  under  my  very  nose.  William  !  Is  that 
William  V  surveying  that  latter-day  negro  with 
a  demoniac  glance.  '  Come  here,  come  here,  I 
say.' 

'  Oh,  murder !'  says  W^illiam,  and  dashing  past 
Nan,  who  is  in  his  way,  he  steps  upon  the  window- 
sill,  and  precipitates  himself  into  the  garden 
beneath. 

'This   is  the   result   of  your   teaching,  no  doubt,' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  215 

says  Mr.  Delaney,  now  addressing  Nan.  *  Insubor- 
dination everywhere.  Tcha !  tcha !'  This  extra- 
ordinary ejaculation  he  fires  off  with  the  facihty  of 
long  practice.  It  is  a  truly  hateful  noise,  a  cross 
between  a  bark  and  a  snuffle,  and  charged  with  spite- 
ful anger.  *  Now,  I  will  have  you  understand  that 
for  the  future  I  forbid  all  such  dissipation — I  forbid 
guests,  I  forbid  late  hours,  I  forbid  light  conduct 
of  any  kind.     I  forbid  ' — grandly — '  everything.' 

This  is  the  climax.  Drawing  his  nondescript 
garment  round  him,  as  though  full  of  the  proud 
belief  that  it  is  a  toga,  Mr.  Delaney  slowly  lets  his 
eyes  travel  over  his  guests  until  at  last  they  rest  on 
his  eldest  son. 

'  Bartle — a  word  with  you,'  says  he.  There  is 
malignancy  in  his  glance.  He  has  not  been  blind  to 
the  fact  of  his  son's  indignation  at  his  conduct,  and  a 
longing  to  give  him  a  verbal  chastisement  is  consuming 
him.  Stalking  majestically  to  the  door,  his  miserable 
figure  drawn  to  its  fullest  height,  he  disappears  into 
the  hall  beyond,  Bartle  following. 

*  What'U  he  do  to  him  .'"  whimpers  Henjy,  coming 
now  from  behind  Penelope's  skirts. 


2i6  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Providentially  it  is  too  late  for  him  to  be  hungry/ 
says  Croker.  '  So  he  won't  eat  him.  He  must  have 
supped  before  this.' 

*  But  he  may  beat  him,'  suggests  Nolly,  whimpering 
too.  *  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  in  bed  !  Perhaps  he'll  come 
back,  and ' 

*  If  he  does,  his  blood  be  on  his  own  head,'  says 
Croker,  taking  her  up  in  his  arms  ;  '  for  I  vow  I'll  slay 
him.  What !  Does  he  take  us  for  common  cowards, 
ihen  }  A  fig  for  him,  say  I !  I'm  as  good  as  a  dozen 
of  him  any  day.  "  Fee,  Fo,  Fum,"  of  ancient  memory, 
was  a  trifle  to  me  when  once  roused.  As  sure  as 
your  pater  puts  his  head  inside  this  door  again  to- 
night I'll  have  his  life.  Hume !  fetch  me  down 
that  bow  and  arrow.' 

*  Oh !  But  are  you  sure  you  won't  miss  him  ?' 
says  Miss  Nolly  fearfully. 

*  Norah !  what  a  naughty  girl  you  are !'  cries 
Nan,  colouring,  and  feeling,  somehow,  a  little  pang 
at  her  heart  for  this  unloving  father,  who  is  still  her 
father.  *  Would  you  really  wish  father  to  be  killed  } 
Put  her  down,  Freddy,  and  don't  talk  to  her  like 
that.     It  is  not  right,  and  she  is  such  a  baby;    she 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  217 

doesn't  mean  anything  really,  I  am  sure.     Do  you, 
now,  Nolly  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  do,'  says  Nolly  sullenly,  unsoftened  and 
unrepentant. 

After  this  they  all  sink  into  a  significant  silence, 
awaiting  the  return  of  Bartle.  To  break  up  the 
assembly  until  his  fate  be  known  would  be  to  basely 
desert  him.  But  will  he  return,  or  is  he  being, 
even  now,  consigned  to  a  dungeon  keep,  where  rats 
alone  hold  sway  ?     Horrid  thought ! 

The  sound  of  his  footsteps,  as  presently  they  clatter 
on  the  hall  outside,  is  music  to  them. 

'  Well,  well,  what  did  he  say  ?'  asks  Nan,  rushing 
forward  as  he  enters. 

'  He  said  "  Tcha  !  tcha  !"  '  returns  Bartle,  with 
violent  disgust.  Beyond  this  he  refuses  to  tell  any- 
thing, and,  indeed,  it  is  plain  to  all  that  he  has  suffered 
much  (in  mind,  at  least)  during  his  late  conflict  with 
his  father. 

*  It  is  getting  late,'  says  Croker,  looking  at  his 
watch.     *  I  suppose  we  ought  to  bid  you  good-night }' 

'  I  suppose  so,'  says  Nan,  sighing. 

'  It's     a     most     lovely     moonlight     night,'     says 


2i8  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

Gladys  suddenly,  who  has  been  staring  out  of  the 
window. 

'  And  it  is  no  distance  to  the  gate,'  puts  in  Croker 
encouragingly. 

'  Yes,  let's  go  there,'  says  Bartle — '  all  of  us.  I 
feel  as  if  I  wanted  air  or  something.' 

'  Poor  darling  boy,'  says  Nan,  slipping  a  most 
snowy  arm  around  his  neck,  'you  have  been  badgered, 
haven't  you  ?  And  such  a  preparation  for  a  night's 
reading,  too !' 

'  What  is  he  reading  for  V  asks  Hume  abruptly,  not 
of  Nan,  however — of  Penelope. 

'  He  is  going  in  for  the  Indian  Civil  Service 
exam.,'  says  she ;  '  and  he's  sure  to  pass,  too,  he's  so 
clever.' 

'  Penelope !'  roars  Bartle  instantly,  growing  the 
colour  of  blood. 

*  But,  indeed,  Penelope  only  speaks  the  truth,^  says 
Nan  sweetly.  '  Everybody  knows  you  are  perfectly 
sure  to  get  through ;  they  say  you  will  be  the 
cleverest  candidate  that ' 

'  Oh,  go  to  the  deuce  !'  roars  Bartle  again,  with  all 
that  ingratitude  so  common  to  the  best  of  brothers. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  219 

'  Come  on  to  the  gate,  if  you  mean  it,'  continues  he 
savagely,  '  or  else ^ 


'  No,  no,  we're  coming,'  says  Penelope  sooth- 
ingly. 

They  allmove  towards  the  door  in  a  body.  There 
is  a  slight  confusion  when  they  get  to  it.  It  is  this 
opportunity  that  Ffrench  seizes  upon  to  go  up  to 
Nan,  and  address  her  for  the  first  time  since  the 
turning  up  of  that  fatal  lamp,  to  which  Aladdin's  was 
as  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

'You  know  not  what  it  is  to  pine 

With  ceaseless  vain  regret ; 
You  never  felt  a  love  like  mine 
You  never  knew  Annette.' 


'  I  WISH  to  speak  to  you,'  says  he. 

'Eh?'  says  Nan,  with  a  mean  desire  to  gain  time. 
'  Oh  yes ;  yes,  certainly.  To  speak  to  me  ? ,  Of 
course,  dear  Boyle,  Well  ?'  with  the  airiest  air  in  the 
world,  and  the  most  innocent,  as  if  seeing  no  earthly 
reason  why  he  should  not  unburden  himself  here,  on 
the  instant. 

*  Not  here,'  says  he — '  outside.  Walk  with  me  to 
the  gate.'  His  tone  is  almost  a  command,  but  Nan, 
after  a  wild  glance  around,  sees  no  means  of  evading 
it.  If,  indeed,  she  had  not  hopelessly  offended  Hume 
also,  he  might  have  been  used  as  a  defence. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  221 

'  I  shall  be  delighted,'  says  she,  telling  her  lie  with 
an  effort  at  jubilation  that  by  no  means  deceives  her 
companion.  *  Was  there  ever  so  sweet  an  evening  for 
a  walk  ?' 

*  Never,^  retorts  he  grimly. 

They  are  at  the  hall-door  by  this  time ;  no  one 
else  seems  to  be  near  them.  By  some  unfortunate 
chance,  whilst  she  was  talking  to  Ffrench  the  others 
had  entangled  themselves  in  an  impossible  argument 
that  it  might  take  months  to  arrange.  Nan,  after  a 
last  despairing  glance  backwards,  submits  to  black 
fate,  and  goes  with  Captain  Ffrench  into  the  vivid 
moonlight  that  lies  like  a  white  flood  upon  the  gravel 
outside. 

Presently  the  others,  giving  up  the  argument,  pour 
out  into  the  exquisite  night  beyond,  and,  standing  on 
the  gravel,  look  round  and  backwards,  as  if  for  Nan. 

'  She  has  gone  on,'  says  William,  who  has  rejoined 
them  with  a  face  resuscitated.  '  I  saw  her  go  down 
that  walk  with  Ffrench.' 

'  Oh  !'  says  Penelope  under  her  breath. 

Not  so  low,  however,  but  that  Croker  can  hear  it, 
and  the  dismay  in  it. 


222  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'Yes.  Isn't  she  catching  it!'  says  Bartle.  He 
fondly  believes  he  is  whispering  to  Penelope,  but  some 
whispers  carry  far.  Hume  hears  this  one  at  least, 
and  a  sharp  contraction  at  his  heart  compels  him  to 
know  that  he  is  pained  by  the  hearing.  Why  should 
she  '  catch  it '  from  Ffrench  ?  what  right  has  he  over 
her  .?  By  her  own  lips  he  judges  her,  and  those  soft  if 
cruel  members  have  assured  him  that  Ffrench  is  an 
*  unconsidered  trifle  '  so  far  as  she  is  concerned.  Yet 
ofttimes  the  softest  lips  have  lied  !  His  face  pales  a 
little  as  he  tells  himself  that,  lie  or  no  lie,  he  will  hold 
her  to  what  she  has  said,  and  gain  her  in  spite  of 
herself  and  all  the  world  besides.  Into  his  usually 
quiet  face  there  comes  at  this  moment  an  expression 
of  such  dogged  determination  as  could  be  only 
betrayed  by  an  Englishman,  and  that  one  with  every 
fibre  of  his  body  set  on  one  resolve,  and  one  only. 
He  turns  away  abruptly,  and,  leaving  the  others — 
who  have  chosen  the  more  general  avenue — goes 
down  that  path  of  which  William  had  spoken. 

Meantime  Penelope  has  been  answering  Bartle. 

'  Catching  it }  From  Boyle  .?  Why  V  says  she 
shortly.      Croker,  who    is    beside    her,    takes    note 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  223 

involuntarily  of  the  little  frown  that  accompanies  this 
speech. 

'  Stuff!  As  if  you  didn't  know,'  says  Bartle.  'As  if 
it  isn't  as  plain  to  you  as  to  the  rest  of  us  that  he  is 
idiotically  in  love  with  her/ 

'  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  shouldn't 
speak  like  that,  Bartle,'  says  Penelope,  bent  only  on 
being  loyal  to  Nan,  but  with  such  a  vehemence  in 
her  loyalty  that  Croker  turns  suddenly  to  look  at 
her. 

For  the  moment  a  suspicion,  hateful  to  him,  crosses 
his  mind,  but  he  puts  it  from  him.  That  she  should 
love  Ffrench !  Oh  no !  Impossible !  And  yet 
little  things,  trifling  words,  half-glances,  sometime 
forgotten,  but  now  remembered,  flood  his  memory. 
For  a  torturing  minute  or  so  he  gives  room  to  the  vile 
demons,  and  then  casts  them  behind  him — not  slain, 
however. 

By  this  time  Nan  and  Ffrench  have  found  their 
way  through  the  branching  trees  to  that  point  where 
they  must  needs  turn  to  gain  the  main  avenue.  This 
is  Ffrench's  last  chance,  and  he  knows  it.  Hitherto, 
surcharged  as  he  has  been  by  indignant  thought,  he 


224  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

has  abstained  from  reproaching  her ;  but  now  that 
minutes  have  reduced  themselves  to  moments  he 
gives  way  to  the  overpowering  passion  that  has  been 
for  so  long  his  master. 

They  had  been  talking  the  commonest  trivialities  up 
to  this — a  style  of  conversation  generously  encouraged 
by  Nan — but  now,  turning  to  her,  Ffrench  stops  dead 
short  upon  the  leafy  path. 

'  This  sort  of  thing  can't  go  on  for  ever,'  says  he 
abruptly. 

'  Eh  ?'  returns  Nan,  startled.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
cowardly  determination  to  misunderstand  him,  with 
a  view  to  gaining  time,  she  laughs.  'An  incontes- 
table fact !'  says  she,  with  a  great  assumption  of 
gaiety.  '  Do  you  really  want  to  walk  this  path  for 
ever  ?  It's  a  rather  shabby  little  affair,  isn't  it  ?'  with 
a  glance  at  the  irregular^  weed-grown  little  way  in 
question.  *  I'm  afraid,  even  if  your  idea  were  a 
practicable  one,  that  presently  the  delights  of  it  would 
pall  upon ' 

*  There  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  subterfuge,' 
interrupts  Ffrench,  his  black  gloomy  eyes  upon  the 
ground.     *  Do  you  think  I  was  blind  to-night  ?     Do 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  225 

you  ?     I    wish,'   passionately,   '  I  had  been  before   I 
saw  you  standing  with  your  hand  in  his.' 

*  My  hand  was  in  yours,  too,'  says  Miss  Delaney — 
why,  not  even  she  herself  could  have  explained.  If 
with  a  view  to  soothing  him,  it  was  a  most  mistaken 
one. 

'Yes,  that  was  the  most  cursed  part  of  it,'  says 
he,  with  a  sudden  blaze  of  wrath.  '  Great  Heaven  ! 
have  you  no  conscience  ?  You  have  encouraged  me, 
drawn  me  on,  wilfully,  openly,  and  now  you  would 
encourage  him !' 

*  I  don't  want  to  encourage  anybody,'  says  Nan 
petulantly,  the  colour  coming  and  going  on  her 
rounded  cheek.  '  I  wish  you  would  all  go  away.  I 
am  quite  tired  of  everybody,  and  of  being  scolded 
and  misunderstood.' 

*  Well,'  said  he,  with  a  rather  saturnine  smile,  *  I 
think  there  is  no  danger  of  your  being  misunderstood 
by  Itiin  again.     If  I  saw,  he  saw,  too.' 

'  I'm  sure  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,'  declares  Nan,  with  a 
little  indignant  tilt  of  her  chin.  'It  gives  me  im- 
mense happiness  to  hear  that  both  your  visual  organs 
are  in  good  working  order.' 

VOL.  I.  15 


226  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

After  this  sally  there  is  silence  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Then — 

*  You  don't  care  ?'  says  he,  with  so  much  deep 
grief  in  his  tones  that  she  grows  miserable,  and  there- 
fore angry. 

*  Oh,  what  is  there  to  care  about  ?'  cries  she.  '  You 
would  make  a  mountain  out  of  every  molehill. 
I  really  think  you  are  one  of  the  most  tiresome  people 
I  ever  met  in  my  life.  '  If — if  I  do  like  to  amuse 
myself  a  little,  what  great  harm  is  there  in  that  ?' 

'  Harm  !  to  find  amusement  in  the  pain  of  others  .'* 
Don't  you  see  how  intolerably  selfish  it  is  of  you  ?' 
says  the  young  man  darkly.  *  You  don't  mind  what 
torture  you  inflict.  I  don't  believe  you  care  for  a 
single  soul  on  earth  except  yjourself.' 

Miss  Delaney,  whose  transitions  of  mood  are  so 
swift  and  uncertain  that  they  cannot  be  relied  upon, 
instead  of  here  betraying  a  righteous  anger  at  this 
unwarrantable  speech,  gives  way  to  mirth. 

'  You  believe  wrong,  then,  my  sapient  Boyle,'  cries 
she,  plucking  a  tiny  bit  of  thistledown  from  her 
sleeve,  and  blowing  it  lightly,  with  pretty  pouting  lips, 
into  the  air.     'I  care  for  many  a  one  in  this  dull  old 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  227 

world,  besides  the  charming  person  you  have  named. 
Why,  a  secret  for  you  ' — leaning  towards  him  and 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm  in  a  coaxing,  con- 
fidential fashion — ^  I  care  for  you  !' 

This  is  going  a  little  too  far.  Ffrench's  dark  eyes 
grow  brilliant  with  a  touch  of  suppressed  fury,  and 
with  a  savage  movement  he  flings  aside  the  small 
slender  hand  that  is  resting  so  lightly  on  him. 

'Don^t  speak  to  me  like  that !'  says  he  fiercely. 

'  Well,  and  why  not  to  you,  you  rough  boy  ?' 

'  Because  you  waste  time.  I  do  not  believe 
you.' 

'  How  rude  of  you  to  give  me  the — you  know 
what,  in  that  way,'  she  says  provokingly.  '  Why 
should  you  not  believe  me  ?  Are  we  not  cousins } 
are  we  not,  indeed,  brothers  in  affliction — my  Julia 
being  yotir  Julia,  too.  By-the-bye,  Boyle,'  with  an 
entire  change  of  manner — from  the  tender  mocking 
to  the  downright  commonplace,  'how  do  you 
manage  to  endure  her  as  you  do  V 

'  I  have  got  to  endure  worse  things  than  Julia,' 
says  he  coldly. 

'  Me,  you  mean  !     Well,  but   there's  no  necessity. 

15—2 


228  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

You  needn't.  Why  on  earth  martyr  yourself?  You 
can  go  away,  or  keep  away,'  says  pretty  Nan,  shrugging 
disdainful  shoulders  at  him.     '  Eh  ?' 

No  answer. 

'  It  is  quite  in  your  own  power.  I  shan't  interfere. 
Why  on  earth  don't  you  give  me  the  cut  direct  ?' 
demands  she  persistently. 

'  You  know,'  says  he,  so  wearily  that  it  should 
have  softened  her ;  and,  in  fact,  it  does.  After  a 
struggle,  short  but  sharp,  between  her  better  self  and 
the  demon  of  mischief  that  is  always  at  her  elbow, 
the  good  angel  conquers,  and  Miss  Delaney  with  a 
sigh  prepares  to  lay  down  her  arms. 

*  Perhaps,  after  all,  I'm  sometimes  wrong,'  says  she, 
making  this  singularly  humble  concession  with  all 
the  air  of  one  who,  though  faultless,  feels  it  will  be 
gracious  to  give  in  to  the  false  prejudices  of  those 
around.  *If  I  have  offended  you  or  annoyed  you, 
Boyle,  I'm  sorry.     I  am  indeed.     Is  that  enough  ?' 

*  More  than  enough,'  cries  he  vehemently.  *  And, 
after  all,  you  didn't  mean  it,  Nan,  did  you  }  You  just 
gave  him  your  hand  because ' 

*Yes,  yes;   just  so,'  hastily.     'Just  for  fun,  don't 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  229 

you  know.  Nothing  else — nothing  at  all.  And 
don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  it.  It  isn't  worth  it, 
really.' 

'  No,  he  isn't/  says  Ffrench,  rearranging  her  words 
for  her  with  a  buoyancy  that  somehow  depresses  her. 
*Nan/  says  he,  'will  you  meet  me  on  Croachna  Hill 
to-morrow  at  four  o'clock?  there  is  every  sign  of  a 
coming  storm,  and .  a  view  of  the  waves  from  there 
should  be  splendid.' 

*  To- morrow — I  can't.' 
'  Why  not  ?' 

'  I Now,  don't  get  into  a  rage  again,  Boyle, 

but  I've  promised  Mr.  Hume  to  go  for  a  sail  with  him 
to-morrow.' 

'  Alone  ?' 

*  Of  course  not.     How  absurd  you  are  !' 

'  With  whom,  then  }  Penelope  is  going  with  Julia 
to  a  picnic  at  the  Galley  Head  ;  so  is  Gladys  ;  so  are 
the  boys.' 

*  Well,  I'm  not.  Julia  is  too  trying  for  me.  A 
little  of  her  goes  a  long  way.  Mr.  Hume  has  asked 
the  Leslies  to  go  for  a  sail  to-morrow,  and  I'm  to  meet 
them  at  Glandore.     We  all  go  on  board  together.' 


230  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'When  did  you  make  this  arrangement?' 

*  Quite  a  week  ago.' 

*  I  don't  think  you  will  carry  it  out,  then,  unless 
Hume  is  a  bigger  duffer  than  even  I  think  him. 
There  will  be  nasty  sea  weather  to-morrow.' 

'Time  will  tell  that.  For  my  part,  I  believe  we 
shall  have  a  glorious  day,'  says  Nan,  glancing  up- 
wards at  the  sky,  which  looks  good-natured  enough 
to  an  inexperienced  eye.  '  I  hope  so,  at  all  events, 
as  I  dearly  love  a  sail.' 

'You  won't  get  one/  says  Ffrench  with  decision. 
'Well,  if  not  to-morrow,  will  you  meet  me  on 
Croachna  Hill  the  day  after  ?'  Then,  seeing  her  hesi- 
tate, '  Oh,  Nan,  don't  refuse  me  !' 

'  I  won't.  I  didn't  mean  to,'  says  she  eagerly.  '  I'll 
be  there  certainly.  Yes,  yes,  indeed.  You  may 
depend  upon  me.  If,'  with  a  little  laugh,  '  Mr.  Hume 
doesn't  drown  me  to-morrow,  you  will  see  me  on 
Croachna  Hill  the  day  after.' 

'  Your  hand  on  that,'  says  he,  smiling.  He  holds 
out  his,  and  Nan  lays  her  shapely  fingers  on  his 
palm.  It  is  at  this  moment  that  Mr.  Hume,  turning 
a  corner,  comes  up  to  them. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

'  It's  her  sport  and  pleasure  to  flout  me, 
To  spurn,  and  scorn,  and  scout  me. 
But,  ah  !  I've  a  notion  it's  nought  but  play.' 

*iv  '^  ^P  7|P  7|& 

It  is  impossible  for  the  most  innocent  people  in  the 
world  to  be  discovered  suddenly  hand  in  hand  without 
betraying  some  confusion.  Nan  colours  furiously,  a 
fact,  however,  hardly  noticeable  beneath  the  mild 
rays  of  the  moon  ;  but  her  start  backwards  the  mildest 
mannered  moon  that  ever  decked  the  heavens  could 
not  conceal.  As  for  Ffrench,  the  smile  dies  upon  his 
lips,  and  his  brows  grow  together. 

'  Are  we  late  ?  Have  the  others  sent  you  in  search 
of  us  ?  Surely  they  cannot  be  at  the  gate  yet .?'  says 
Nan,  asking  these  questions  at  racing  speed,  and 
turning  a  nervous  conciliatory  smile  on  Hume,  who 
ignores  it. 


232  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Nobody  sent  me.  I  came  of  my  own  accord  to 
find  you.  I  want  to  speak  to  you  !'  says  he  sternly, 
using  the  very  words  Ffrench  had  used,  and  speaking 
as  deliberately  as  though  Ffrench  was  nothing  more 
than  one  of  the  trees  around. 

*  To  me  V  says  Nan,  inwardly  quailing,  but  out- 
wardly the  very  picture  of  guileless  curiosity. 

'Yes.' 

'Well,  here  I  am,'  says  she,  with  another  even 
lovelier  smile,  that  meets  the  fate  of  its  predecessor. 

*  Come,  then,'  says  he,  making  a  step  forward  and 
using  a  gesture  that  must  be  translated  into  a  desire 
to  take  her  with  him. 

*  But  where  ?'  asks  she,  drawing  back. 

'  Anywhere  you  like.     Except  here,'  shortly. 

'  Nan,  it  is  quite  time  you  joined  your  sisters/  says 
Ffrench  at  this  juncture.  It  is  with  difficulty  he  is 
suppressing  the  rage  that  is  consuming  him,  but 
blended  with  this  rage  is  an  unmistakable  sense  of 
triumph  that  betrays  itself  in  his  voice,  and  in  her 
present  mood  makes  Nan  indignant. 

*  There  is  no  great  hurry,'  says  she  coldly.  *  Go 
on,  you,  to  the  gate,  and  tell  them  I  am  coming.    Mr. 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  233 

Hume  wishes  to  speak  to  me.  There  is  no  reason 
why  I  should  not  hear  him.'  Then,  seeing  Ffrench 
hesitate,  she  turns  abruptly  to  him.  *  Go  !'  she  says, 
so  imperiously  that  nothing  is  left  him  save  obedience. 

*  Now,'  says  she,  lifting  her  eyes  to  Hume's  when 
her  cousin  is  out  of  sight,  '  what  is  it  you  have  to 
say  .'*' 

It  is  plain  her  patience  is  at  an  end.  She  had  sub- 
dued herself  whilst  Ffrench  was  present  for  several 
reasons,  but  now  she  gives  full  scope  to  her  resent- 
ment. She  has  thrown  up  her  head  so  that  Hume 
can  see  how  white  her  face  has  grown,  and  that  the 
large  gray  eyes  are  flashing. 

'Very  little,'  says  Hume  briefly,  perfectly  undis- 
turbed by  her  tone.  *  Just  a  word  or  two ;  but  a  word 
I  mean.  My  eyes  have  been  opened  to  a  good  deal 
this  evening,  but  I  still  hold  you  to  your  word  that 
you  are  not  engaged  to  be  married.  And  I  swear  to 
you,'  quite  calmly  still,  but  with  a  little  ring  in  his 
voice,  *  that  whilst  I  live  you  shall  marry  no  man  but 
me !     Not  Ffrench  or  any  other  man,  but  only  me.' 

*Is  that  all?'  says  she,  with  an  angry  little  laugh. 
*  You  are  quite  welcome  to  swear  as  much  and   as 


234  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

long  as  you  like,  so  that  I  do  not  hear  you.  I  dislike 
that  sort  of  thing.  But  as  to  marrying  me,  that  is 
another  affair  altogether.  How  are  you  going  to  do 
it }  The  days  are  past  when  one  could  capture  a 
wife.'  She  flings  him  a  scornful  glance  as  she  says 
this. 

'  I  shall  at  all  events  prevent  your  marrying  anyone 
else.' 

'  And  how  ?'  demands  she  again  contemptuously. 

*  The  days  of  the  poisoned  bowl  and  the  midnight 
assassin  are  gone,  too,  with  the  coach  and  four  and 
the  masked  hero.  And  as  for  me,  I  tell  you  I  am 
afraid  of  no  one,  of  nothing.  And  as  far  as  I  can 
judge  at  this  moment,  it  is  my  thorough  belief  that  I 
perfectly  hate  you  !' 

Something  in  her  words  sobers  him  to  sadness. 

*  Why  will  you  talk  to  me  like  this,  Nan  ?'  says  he 
in  a  low  tone.  '  Would  you  altogether  break  an 
honest  heart  ?  and  that  is  mine  for  you.  Is  it  nothing 
to  you,  the  pain  I  am  enduring  ?' 

'Oh!  now  you  just  repeat  him — Boyle,'  cries  she. 

*  I  wish  you  would  all  let  me  alone.  I  don't  want  to 
marry  anyone.    I  don't  indeed,'  almost  piteously.     *  I 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  235 

only  want  to  be  left  in  peace.  As  to  marrying,  I 
should  hate  to  be  married.  To  be  chained  down  as 
it  were  for  all  one's  life,  oh  no  I     I ' 

'  That  is  enough,'  says  he,  interrupting  her  hastily. 
A  rather  lengthened  pause  ensues,  and  then,  *  Re- 
member, you  told  me  you  do  not  care  for  him,'  he 
says  slowly. 

'  I  told  you  something  more  than  that,  I  think 
— that  I  do  not  care  for  you  either.' 

She  says  this  so  provokingly,  with  such  evident 
malice,  that  he  loses  his  temper. 

'  I  wonder  why  I  waste  my  time  thinking  about 
you  ?'  says  he  vehemently.  As  he  speaks  he  seizes 
her  arm,  and  compels  her  so  to  turn  that  he  can  look 
into  her  eyes.  His  grasp  under  the  influence  of 
passion  is  perhaps  more  painful  than  he  knows, 
because  she  flinches,  and  by  an  abrupt  movement 
releases  herself  from  him. 

*  Oh,  you  are  cruel !'  cries  she,  and  presses  her  hand 
upon  that  portion  of  her  arm  where  his  fingers  had 
closed.  Then  slowly  she  draws  up  her  sleeve  and 
shows  where  a  deep-red  mark  discolours  the  white- 
ness of  her  snowy  flesh. 


236  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

*  Did  I  do  that  ?'  says  Hume,  shocked  at  the  sight. 
All  his  anger  dies  ;  he  remembers  nothing  but  that 
he  has  hurt  her — her.  Her  poor  pretty  arm !  Re- 
morse comes  upon  him  as  he  sees  the  injury  he  has 
inflicted  on  that  lovely  member.  With  a  sudden  un- 
conquerable impulse  he  seizes  her  hand  and  presses  a 
passionate  kiss  upon  the  crimson  mark. 

*  Don't,'  cries  Nan  pettishly,  pushing  him  frown- 
ingly  away.  *  I  would  far  rather  have  the  bruise  than 
the  caress.' 

She  turns  from  him  with  determination,  and  walks 
swiftly  in  the  direction  that  will  take  her  to  where  the 
others  are  already  weary  of  waiting  for  her. 

*  One  moment/  says  Hume.  'To-morrow?' 
anxiously.  *  What  about  it — you — you  will  still 
come  out  sailing  ?' 

*  Oh,  I  don't  know,'  says  Nan  coldly.  *  I  really 
don't  see  how  I  can.  There  is  very  little  pleasure  to 
be  obtained  from  anything,  if  one  is  to  endure  rude- 
ness and  ill-treatment  with  it.' 

'  You  know  I  would  rather  die  than  ill-treat  you/ 
says  Hume. 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  call  this'  pulling  up 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  237 

her  sleeve  once  more,  and  looking  at  her  arm.  Per- 
ceiving that  already  the  useful  mark  is  rapidly  dis- 
appearing, she  covers  it  up  again  with  all  speed. 

*  Try  to  forgive  me  that,'  pleads  he,  '  and  say  you 
will  keep  to  your  promise  to  come  out  for  a  sail  to- 
morrow.' 

'  I  don't  think  I  can,  indeed,'  persists  Miss  Delaney, 
who  wouldn't  have  given  up  the  sail  for  a  good  deal, 
yachting  being  her  very  chiefest  joy.  She  shakes  her 
head  with  terrible  firmness,  and  walks  on  again  with 
increasing  haste. 

*  Nan/  says  Hume  desperately,  '  if  I  go  down  on 
my  knees  to  you  will  you  forgive  me  ?' 

*  I  can't  imagine  what  good  that  could  do,'  says 
Miss  Delaney  contemptuously.  *  A  man  on  his  knees 
must  be  a  sorry  spectacle.  Do  you  propose  to  do  it 
here,  in  this  muddy  spot  ?  Well,'  brightening  some- 
what, as  though  the  *  sorry  spectacle '  has  suddenly 
presented  itself  in  pleasant  colours  to  her,  *  try  it. 
One  can  never  tell  beforehand  how  one  may  be  in- 
fluenced by  anything  strange  or  out  of  the  common.' 

*  Here  goes,  then,'  says  Hume,  preparing  to  kneel 
on  the  grass  thar  runs  beside  the  path. 


238  A  BORN  COQUETTE. 

'  Not  there,'  says  she  maliciously.  '  I  bargained  for 
this  identical  spot/  pointing  to  where  the  late  rain  has 
made  a  little  ugly  pool  upon  the  pathway. 

'  Oh,  Nan,  there  is  no  one  so  strong  as  you.  I 
pray  you,  then,  show  mercy,'  says  Hume,  laughing 
in  spite  of  himself.  '  Let  it,  I  implore  you,  be  an 
inch  or  two  to  one  side.' 

Laughter  is  infectious,  and  so  dear  at  all  times  to 
the  heart  of  a  Delaney  that  Nan,  after  a  brief  struggle, 
gives  in  to  it. 

'  There,  I'll  let  you  off,'  says  she,  with  some  scorn. 
*  Fancy  being  afraid  of  a  little  pool  like  that !  Ah, 
there  are  the  others,  and  everyone  looking  daggers. 
Well,  I  shall  tell  them,  and  truly,  that  it  was  all  your 
fault.' 

*  And  you  will  come  to-morrow  ?'  questions  he 
eagerly. 

'Yes;  but,  mind,  I  will  have  no  scoldings,  and  no 
cross  looks.     The  Leslies  will  surely  be  there  ^' 
*■  They  have  promised  faithfully.' 

*  Very  good.  If  I  choose  to  make  myself  agree- 
able to  Jack  Leslie,  I  won't  be  called  to  account  for 
it.' 


A  BORN  COQUETTE.  239 

*Why,  of  course  not/  says  Hume.  'Who  on  earth 
would  presume  to  call  you  to  account  for  anything  ?' 

*I  should  advise  you  to  spend  all  your  time  between 
this  and  to-morrow  trying  to  find  that  out/  says  Miss 
Delaney,  giving  him  a  little  sapient  nod. 


END  OF  VOL.   I. 


BILLING   AND   SONS,    PRINTERS,    GUILDFORD. 


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